


Firsts and Seconds

by skerb



Category: Undertale (Video Game)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Farm/Ranch, Alternate Universe - Farmtale (Undertale), Caretaking, Farmtale Papyrus (Undertale), Farmtale Sans (Undertale), Fluff, Food Issues, Food as a Metaphor for Love, Horrorfarm - Freeform, Horrortale Sans (Undertale), Hurt/Comfort, Injury Recovery, Light Angst, M/M, Recovery, Slow Build, Slow Burn, Starvation, Strangers to Lovers, all i know are potatoes i'm sorry, rottencrop - Freeform, sad beginning, unrealistic depictions of farm life
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-09-24
Updated: 2021-02-18
Packaged: 2021-03-07 23:20:11
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 11
Words: 31,068
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26625826
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/skerb/pseuds/skerb
Summary: Sans (who goes by 'Sticks') has had a good life; he and his brother inherited their grandfather's small farm and things are going well. Nice people around, no shortage of things to do, the satisfaction of seeing the land flourish to life every year.........that is, until he stumbles upon something no one ever expects to find in their field one autumn evening while Papyrus is in town.(rottencrop slowburn recovery fic ♥)
Relationships: HorrorFarm, Rottencrop, Sans/Sans (Undertale), farmhorror - Relationship
Comments: 677
Kudos: 921





	1. Chapter 1

It’s late in the year. The days have been shortening to a whisper of summer, the nights longer and colder than it’s been in months. The long cries of cicadas and crows in the distance are enough to tell him that autumn’s well on its way.

He goes by Sticks to those that don’t know him, because it’s easier that way, but his name is Sans. There’s no point in keeping a name that people fight over in public, so he loans it to the guy running the grocery store fifteen miles down the road. It’s where his brother goes to barter, which is fine with him since he doesn’t care for the walk.

Right now, it’s his job to clear the fields and burn the slash before it gets out of hand. The only thing that continues to grow are hardy brussel sprouts and pumpkins, and in their tiny orchard apples and quince. There are a few bushes of raspberries, but not enough to make coin off, so Sans dries them for storage or turns them into jelly.

Everything else, they barter or trade. Life is hard work, but the honest complexity of it gives him purpose. It’s humbling. He doesn’t care about the outside world as he works, his bones scuffed with soil and berry stains. His overalls probably need more than a wash or two, and his straw hat needs repairing.

He works towards sunset, dragging bundles of cut down peanut plants to his wheelbarrow. He’s been putting it off for far too long. He had promised himself that he’d go down to the slash pit to finally get rid of it, after one too many sighs from his brother. That, and a hearty mushroom stew awaits him on their wood stove when he returns.

While they don’t own that much land, it’s as dense as a small jungle, every acre utilised to their ultimate potential. His brother, Papyrus, had arranged it himself upon inheriting the land, calling it efficient and grand, much like himself. Sans just grinned while he planned it all out, willing to put a little backbone into their new home. It was oddly comforting.

Now here he was, at his brother’s whim nearly fifteen years later. He struggled. He toiled, learned the laws of nature, cried in frustration over destroyed crops and stubborn weeds, rejoiced when the harvest was bountiful. After a long life of struggle, homestead life agreed with him. It made him feel like a new person.

Now, he’s grown comfortable as ‘Sticks’. Eventually he started to call Papyrus ‘Stones’, much to his brother’s extreme irritation. Over time, it became an old comfortable jacket that Sans donned any time he wanted.

As much as he had wanted and also silently hoped for, stamina never grew from the garden they cultivated from. Sans remained low on energy, took frequent breaks, and napped in the barn with their old ox Brinley. More often than not, Papyrus would find him dozing by the creek that split up their backyard, using the wheelbarrow as a makeshift bed.

As tired as he is, Sans doesn’t rest. He pushes his cart full of dried plants, his bones protesting as he goes. At thirty-six, he’s getting too old for this. He’s just not made for manual labour, as much as he likes doing it. Besides, with the harsh, beaming autumn days and the crisp, chilly nights, the trenches between mounds are hard and deep. He tends to trip.

Eventually, he does. He doesn’t hurt himself badly, thank god, but it scuffs him up good and upends him over the barrel. A couple ribs bruise easily through his flannel and he rubs irritably at the sore spots with a self-reprimanding grimace. Then he gets up, rights the wheelbarrow, and carefully rotates his foot to make sure that he didn’t sprain it.

Sunset is closing in. If Sans doesn’t want to subject himself to another eight stumbles on his way back, he’s gotta pick up the pace.

That is, until he notices something out of the corner of his eye. The first thing he thinks of is coyotes; he’s wary of them, but there hasn’t been any barking for awhile. The homestead is miles and miles from any settlement with only the Old Town Market the closest thing between them and the next town.

What he sees is something he hasn’t in a long time. Sans moves slowly as he takes in every detail. Fur mats around their exposed skull, clothes dried and dirty, stuck in the muck and trapped there. Its bones look so decrepit that they look like terra cotta.

Poor thing. It must’ve been a human and they’d lost their way. By the looks of things, they’d been there for quite some time. He hopes it wasn’t malicious -- they have a head wound, but he can’t see any blood. In fact, they’re devoid of any flesh. Must’ve been out here for a long time, if the state of their clothes is anything to go by.

Out of respect, Sans takes off his straw hat and holds it to his chest, giving a moment of silence. It wouldn’t be the weirdest thing they’ve discovered on their acreage, but finding a human corpse would likely upset Papyrus.

He’s hesitant to touch it. It’s weird to handle dead things. There’s such an impermanence around non-monster things that linger, foreign and unsettling. Sans kind of wishes humans turned to dust when they died too. It would make cleanup a whole lot easier.

…

Yeah. He should get rid of this thing before Papyrus stumbles across it. Otherwise it’d be the chicken fiasco all over again.

It’s a few minutes more before Sans scrounges up the nerve to step down the slope and closer to the corpse. It doesn’t move, but that doesn’t mean Sans isn’t getting an eerie feeling from being so close by it. He’s almost afraid to touch it, but it doesn’t budge when he approaches. Sans almost flinches at the snap of twigs under his boots, but the corpse doesn’t move an inch.

Humans breathe when they’re alive, right..? Of course they do. They don’t inhale magic from the air like monsters do, but Sans knows from brief encounters that they mimic them. So far, the pile of bones lay pitifully in the hard mud, content to just exist.

Carefully, he stoops down beside it. Still avoiding direct contact, Sans gives it a light poke with a nearby stick. It continues to not move.

Huh.

Dead humans sure are weird. Now that he’s closer, he can’t help but feel that there’s something peculiar about this corpse. Of course, there’s no evidence of it being disturbed before. No scratches on its bones from animals picking them clean, nor being bleached or dried out by the sun. Sans frowns down at it, replacing his hat over his own skull.

This feels too weird to be coincidence.

He’s almost too afraid to say anything.

So Sans tries to poke it again.

There isn’t much, and certainly not enough to detect from even how near he is, but Sans sees the faintest light from somewhere within the corpse’s skull. It’s deep within, a bare pulse to signal to someone,  _ anyone, _ that it’s still alive.

And that they’re a magical being -- a monster, just like him.

And they’re badly hurt, so weak that they barely give off a magic signature.

Sans’s mouth dries up despite how much he needs to speak. If they try to signal again, or to move, they might not make it at all. He looks behind him, to the golden and purple smears high above that streak the sunset sky like it holds answers for him.

Cautiously, Sans lays a hand on their shoulder. They’re cold.

“Heya, pal,” he says softly. The rust red signal flickers like a dying candle. They’re trying really hard to hang on, he just knows it. “You’re safe. I’ll bring you home. You can trust me, ok?”

They either understand or give up being conscious. Either way, that’s fine with Sans. The hazy glow disappears, but their body remains intact.

Now charged with the care of a dying stranger instead of disposing of a human body, Sans’s soul drums nervously as he gets up and wheels the dried plants a few feet away to dump. He’ll figure it out later.

His mind runs a mile a minute but they’re all empty thoughts. He doesn’t think beyond manoeuvring the stranger up out of the dried mud like a poorly reconstructed archeological dig site. They’re weak, they’re light, and thank god for the clothes they’re wrapped in for keeping the mud out of their fingers and joints. Sans has to dig in places to pry their limbs up.

Afterwards, he manages to lift them into the cart, but not before checking them over. The crack in their skull is serious, but it looks old. However they got it, they’ve been like that for a long time. Once they’re laying in the cart, Sans balls up his flannel jacket and drapes it behind their head and around their shoulders to keep them from rattling around too much.

Mercifully, he only trips a couple more times on his way back. The road is smoother the closer to the back porch Sans gets. He figures since it’s both an emergency and Papyrus isn’t here, no one can make disparaging noises at him while he wheels into the house, fighting with each steep step up to the back room. Papyrus stays in town for a few days at a time, sometimes a week, so the house is empty save for him and a few fruit flies. No one to argue with him.

Sans isn’t sure if they can hear him, but he might be speaking to distract himself more than anything else. “Be careful up these steps,” he warns quietly between puffed breaths. “The second one up sinks down a bit. Been meanin’ to fix that, but I haven’t really been up to it. Every time I pass it, I think, ‘Sans, you should really fix that’, and I mean to, but I tend to forget…”

It’s precarious to wheel them into the kitchen from the back room. They have a big sink with a detachable hose for washing produce, but it’s probably not a great idea to bathe them, even as muddy as they are. If Sans hadn’t known any better, he would say they’re close to, if not entirely, Falling Down. Which is… a shame, and really limits the amount of care he can provide for them.

If anything, he can give them some food and a nice spot to rest until they pass away.

It’s a little sad. Sans kind of wishes that they  _ had _ been an expired human. That would’ve been easier to deal with, on second thought.

They have a guest room. Sans had made jokes about it back in the day, but it’s mostly cluttered with old books and farmer’s almanacs from when they were learning their way. There’s also a myriad of tools for the shed Sans is supposed to finish before winter, but oops, there’s another thing he hasn’t gotten to.

The bed is mercifully intact. The sheets on it are a little dusty from disuse, not because of anyone else, so Sans removes the topmost sheet and carries it out to be shaken. The cart probably isn’t the best spot to keep that poor soul, after all.

He grabs a thick crocheted blanket from the closet, one that has a bunch of bright colours in golds, red, and oranges, and drops it on the end of the bed. Then Sans gathers his charge’s body into his arms, his soul sinking just a little more when he realises how  _ frail _ they are, and turns to lay them down on the bed.

They don’t breathe. They’re barely there. The best that Sans can do is make them comfortable.

Since they’re a skeleton monster like himself, and Sans has had his time being sick, he knows frailty like the back of his hand. Even though they’re dirty, he can’t handle them unless they get stronger. So he lays the blanket on top of them, pulling it right up to their chin.

“I’m comin’ right back, buddy,” he murmurs to them, in case they’re actually there and he can’t see that at all. He waits for a moment for a reply. Once he realises that one’s not gonna come, Sans slips out of the room to get something to eat.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you to Gilded_Pleasure on twitter who drew the [corpse discovery](https://twitter.com/gilded_pleasure/status/1316051663699021824) :DDD


	2. Chapter 2

Sans scans his memory of how to treat Fallen monsters.

He hasn’t had to think about it for awhile, not since he made himself scarce when his grandfather had passed away. The stranger’s appearance brings up bittersweet memories. Along with the scent of earthy mushroom and potato stew, things feel a little nostalgic. Too close to the heart.

A myriad of  _ what-ifs _ and anything he could’ve or should’ve done pours back into his head like fine sand, and it’s close to tumbling out of his eyes so much that the metaphor makes tears well up.

He’s made peace with his grandfather’s passing. Nothing he could’ve done. He’d just been old, and old monsters eventually fade away. He just misses the old man.

Wearily, Sans wipes over his face once. He’s hungry. He’ll feel better after a bowl of soup. He thinks they’ll appreciate some soup too, but Fallen monsters turn cold when they start to pass. Anything warm is a surefire way to expedite their journey to the afterlife.

He’s also not sure how much they can handle. Their magic is so scarce that he hadn’t registered that they were a monster until he  _ saw _ the magic in their skull. He didn’t even feel it.

So Sans dishes out a small ladleful into a second bowl to cool, then he eases down at the kitchen table to eat his supper in peace. He feels guilty for it, oddly enough, so Sans gets up, grabs a heel of bread along with some cheese and tries to blow the steaming, creamy soup down to a lukewarm temperature as he walks. Thankfully, he’s gotten into the habit of multitasking.

He makes his way back to the guest room. For some reason, Sans doesn’t expect them to still be there, but of course they are. They haven’t moved an inch, no matter how much he hopes that they will soon. It’s a little stuffy, so he opens the window a crack, disturbing a couple of sleepy spiders in the process.

As he approaches, he looks them over. They’re slight, their bones weak and frail. It kind of looks like they’ve been going without for a long time, made to make do with what meagre magic they could. Sans can’t tear his eyes away from the wound at their skull, the pieces jagged and worn. Their eye sockets are whole, though deep grooves score under their eyes just to show how much in dire need of care they are.

No rust red flush of magic heralds their wellbeing from between their joints. This skeleton is truly down for the count.

What it actually means is that there’s really nothing that Sans can do but to watch as they eventually drift away. The silence gets to him, so he pulls the nightstand over to set the bowls onto and starts to tear up the bread into small pieces. It’s something to do with his hands as he talks.

“Y’know… I dunno how y’got to be out here, but you’re lucky I found ya,” he drawls amiably, though Sans’s uneasiness settles as those lifeless eye sockets stare back at him. His hands don’t shake, but it’s suddenly difficult to rip off the crust from the bread. “I’m sorry you wound up in such a hard spot…” He shrugs to himself and deposits the crumbly mix into the shallow dish, stirring the stew around with his spoon. “I know it’s not much, and you probably won’t taste much of it as far gone as you are, but there’s a bit of food here for ya.”

He tests the back of the spoon with a finger. Only a scant few minutes have passed, so it’s still piping hot. He can’t give them such hot food, otherwise they’ll just dust from the shock. Instead, Sans looks to the door. He thinks about their ox Brinley and the fact that it’s time to check up on her. He can slip away just for a few minutes, so he crumbles up some cheese and puts the small handful onto the stranger’s chest.

“I’m goin’ out to check up on my baby. If you end up absorbin’ any of this, then that’s good. If not, well… I dunno what I’m expecting, really.”

When Sans returns from tending to Brinley, he’s chilly and smells like hay. He removes his gloves and sticks them in his back pocket, then rubs his hands together to warm them up. The cheese is untouched, the stranger still in the bed. Both of their soups are cool enough to eat without worry, so Sans sits on the edge of the mattress and scarfs down a few heaping spoonfuls from his bowl, sighing out when he’s half done.

Then something starts to happen. It’s barely noticeable from the corner of his eye, but a crumb of cheese breaks off and rolls a short distance over the blanket. Then it starts to glow white, a frail beacon of hope.

For the first time since he’s found them, Sans’s smile cracks wide with a hoot of surprise. If he was entirely honest, he hadn’t been expecting that, though he certainly was hoping.

He watches with silent glee as the crumb clumsily converts into energy, taking on a rusty colour before it drags up to the nearest absorption point -- their vertebrae -- and filters down through the cracks. The magic is so wan that it’s a wonder it’s even happening.

Sans grins and wipes over his face as he watches, rapt. It’s a long, agonising moment before the next crumb lights up, but he can’t help but cheer them on with a loud clap.

“Keep goin’, buddy. We’ve got lots of food here. Oh, and come to think of it, I should prob’ly get you cleaned up…”

Sans knows that he tends to ramble to himself if there’s even a smidge of an audience. He’s also prone to humming to himself as he works. As he gets up to grab a few things from his bedroom, he whistles a jaunty little tune.

He’s got clothes that should fit, some old brushes and a bucket to keep them all in. It’ll take a lot of work, but he’s adamant. He’ll clean them up as they get their strength back. All that grit between their joints has gotta be unpleasant.

So he goes about it, slow and steady. When Sans returns to the room, one of the smaller lumps of cheese are missing. Sans can’t help but grin, hoping the poor monster absorbed it easily. He eases down onto the side of the mattress again and carefully peels back the flap covering the zipper on their jacket, clotted with dry mud and soil.

“I’m not gonna do anything funny, don’t you worry. I’m just gettin’ you outta these dirty clothes to wash you up, ok?”

Sans doesn’t expect an answer, so he doesn’t take it to heart when they don’t reply. He nonetheless gives them a gentle pat and a reassuring grin, even though they can’t see it. When he pulls the zipper down from their collar, the teeth catch on the grit, spraying it up, but it dislodges easily enough.

To save the food, Sans picks up the remaining handful and pauses. When he makes contact with the stranger, a bitter cocktail of desperation and intense hunger, lingering starvation and failure washes over him.

Just.  _ Utter failure. _

It puts a stranglehold on Sans. Suddenly, he can’t breathe, but it’s only for a moment. He puts the cheese down beside their skull, much closer than it was before. The sensation of indeterminate, crushing loss gradually creeps away, but it lingers in Sans’s soul like a brand. He considers how they came to be like this, though it doesn’t take a genius to know that they’re starving, and possibly have been for most of their life.

It’s not his business, and he certainly won’t make it his business. He’ll feed them and make them comfortable.

It takes some time to undress them. There are no protests, no groggy murmurs asking Sans what he’s doing. Sans covers their lower half for modesty’s sake, although there’s no real reason to. There’s nothing but bones. The stranger’s body is weak and has the feel of old terracotta or chalk. Dust doesn’t slough from the surface, but it’s damn close.

Sans sets the soiled clothes down beside him on the floor, taking care to replenish a small handful of food nearby so they can absorb as much as they can. He uses a tiny, fine-bristled brush to carefully whisk away the dried mud and grit. It comes off easily with his slow movements, being gentle enough as though he’s brushing the down of a chick.

“We’re a small farm, but it’s just me and my brother here. His name’s Papyrus -- he’s in town for a bit, but he won’t mind ya spending a few days here until you get your strength back,” he murmurs, all gentle care. The air is charged with warmth from the hearth in the next room, so it doesn’t get too cold.

The hours slip by in amiable silence. Sans’s voice is calm and soothing, thinking that this poor Fallen monster needs all the comfort in the world. They truly are starved; a portion of the bread is all gone, most of the cheese, and a few cold globs of soup. On his next break, Sans brings a bowl of nuts and crushes them into manageable pieces before he sets off to work again.

When he returns this time, Sans gambles with some water from the well and some soft cloths. The water isn’t cold, but it isn’t warm either. He dips his finger into the shallow pan, gauging the temperature. It should be ok. Anything more than body warmth would be too much.

He wets the cloth and sets the pan aside, testing the back of their phalanges where it’s muddiest. Sans thinks of the way they lay in the muck, reaching out like they had been desperate to keep going. It’s sad.

There’s no twinge of pain, nor is there any dust. Just reddish-brown dirt that rinses from their fingers, leaving them stained. Sans’s gaze drifts up their arms, following every crack and scar. It doesn’t appear that they’ve had a very easy life, at least at first glance. But the knobbly way old cracks are knitted together gives Sans a feeling that they’ve always been this way.

“There ya go,” he mumbles with a relieved sigh. “I’ll getcha all cleaned up and feelin’ new. Just rest, ok?”

They do so with very little coaching, absorbing the bowl of fruit and nuts with as much interaction as the grave.

Sans continues to clean them up, leaving occasionally to dump the muddy water into the ditch and to draw more from the well. He lights some lamps along the way as the sun sets, flooding the rooms he uses with a rich, dampened light. It throws long shadows into the corners, flickering gently as the flames in the lamps move with the wind.

After awhile, it becomes a solid comfort and starts to lull Sans to sleep. He doesn’t stay up too late on most nights, geared towards early risings, and he’s also done a lot that evening. It’s just after midnight when he finally finishes cleaning up his new house guest, right down to the nooks and crannies between their fingers and toes. It’s not perfect, but he’s not going to put them in a bath.

He hauls out a bit more to snack on, chewing on walnuts as he returns. The flames in the oil lamps sputter as he passes, and Sans closes the window to shut out the evening breeze. He decides to put a larger bowl next to them, filled to the brim with seeds, bread, butter and honey. There are small dried berries, roasted and cooled chestnuts, and creamy bits of mashed hazelnuts. He calls it his ‘energy boost’, even though it looks more like twigs and mud in a bowl.

It should do. If they’re going to bounce back, that is. If not, they’ll have a nice meal packed with energy and magic.

Sans pulls the blanket up to their chin again and locates another, thicker comforter in the side closet, draping it across their body. After snugging up the bowl between their shoulder and skull, Sans stands back.

He’s not sure if he should leave them on their own. If they happen to wake up, it’d be a fright to find themselves naked and in a strange place. Sans’s gaze lingers on the pile of clothes on the floor, feels the fatigue set in his body from all the work that day.

He’s tired. He’ll wash them up good when he wakes up. It’s customary to spread the owner’s dust on their clothes if nothing else is around.

Feeling mildly sheepish about leaving them naked, Sans leaves and grabs a pair of flannel pyjama bottoms from his room. He’s got spares. He moves the blankets up to fit each foot into the legs and pulls them up to the skeleton’s waist. Then he covers them again, feeling better for it.

It’s the least he can do.


	3. Chapter 3

As he always does, Sans wakes up early. It’s a cooler morning and the hearth died down to small embers sometime during the night. Alongside the chill, it’s a little humid inside with the soft hum of magic around him, and his body protests from sleeping crooked in the chair he’d pulled into the guest room with his last vestiges of strength.

He checks the skeleton on the bed. They haven’t moved, the contents of the bowl next to their head no different than it looked when Sans fell asleep. Rubbing at his lower back, Sans absentmindedly gives them a gentle pat on the knee and heads out for some much-needed breakfast.

Papyrus isn’t back yet, which is fine. It’s normal for him to stay out for days or even weeks at a time. Sans doesn’t worry about it like he used to. His brother is well-liked in town. He’s made peace with these snatches of solitude.

So he keeps things going at home. Though it’s autumn, there’s still a lot of things to be done in preparation for winter and spring. After breakfast, he tends to their ox and brushes her down, waters her and lets her out to graze. The fields aren’t very big, but they’ve grown crowded this year and Sans is still pulling up what’s left of the season. He finds the discarded pile of dried plants he dumped the evening before and gathers them up to dispose of properly.

It’s close to nine when Sans makes it back to the house. He dips his head into the guest room to see if anything has changed, then goes around back to wash his hands and clean up the porch.

He checks on his guest frequently throughout the day. Eventually, Sans remembers that he was going to wash their clothes and returns to the stranger’s room. The clothes are still in the heap he’d left them in, so he gathers them up and unturns the pockets just in case.

A switchblade with a bronze case falls out of their jacket, and Sans bends down to retrieve it. A wrapper from a roll of supplement tablets is pulled out next, and Sans recognises as emergency rations. There’s also a crumpled up paper with half a scribble on it. He can barely make out the writing.

Not one to pry, Sans sets the items aside onto the shelf and tries to shimmy the stranger into a more comfortable position. The food is mostly untouched. Maybe what they had absorbed was enough, and anything else is too much?

He hopes they’ll eat more eventually. Sans isn’t sure if he’s ready for the responsibility of spreading a stranger’s dust. At least, not without Papyrus with him for support.

Just in case, he whispers to them. “Heya, buddy. It’s me again, the guy that found ya. It’s ok to eat. You don’t owe me anything. I just want you to get your strength back, yeah? Eat all you can.”

It’s worth a shot. They remain as silent as ever as Sans watches. When it sinks in that they aren’t going to wake up, he leaves the room with their muddy, soiled clothes in hand to clean.

It’s been all day and there’s been no peep from Papyrus, who normally calls around lunchtime. Sans loiters by the phone tethered to the kitchen wall, curling the coiled wire around his digits and undone again. When the other line of their shared cell phone picks up, Sans speaks far too quickly to be convincingly nonchalant.

“Hey, bro, how’s things in town?”

In fact, he can practically envision Papyrus’s eyes narrow warily when he replies, slow and careful. “Just fine, Sans. Is there something you needed?”

Read like an open book. Sans grimaces to himself and wipes over his face as though to rub away the sweat.

“No. Well, yes. But, no.”

Papyrus sighs. As though to excuse his yoyoing, Sans grins and chuckles a little to himself. “I, uh. Found someone?”

“You found someone.”

“Uh. Yeah?”

“You don’t sound sure,” Papyrus retorts flatly. “Should I leave you to double check?”

Sans already beelines out of the kitchen doorway to glance into the guest room. “Yeah, no. They’re still here.”

“Did you really just check??”

“Ye--yes, Paps, I did,” Sans mutters as he momentarily turns his back to the stranger. “I brought ‘em to the house thinkin’ that they were on their way out. Y’know, help someone when they were Falling Down, and… well. Maybe I’ve been thinkin’ that it’s best for them to be seen by a healer. Cuz they’re, uh, eatin’ up whatever I give ‘em.”

“When was this!!” Papyrus sputters over the phone. “Just now!?”

Sans grimaces again, toying with the cord. His eyes glance around the hallway. There’s an old urge to downplay what really happened, but he resists. He’s not that person anymore. “Well, no.”

“Sans-”

“Like… late afternoon, yesterday? Uh, around sunset-”

Papyrus sounds genuinely distressed. “Why didn’t you call!! If they need medical help, then-”

“Listen,” Sans coaxes gently, and Papyrus almost immediately stops. “I thought it was a dead human. I couldn’t even detect any magic. The poor guy’s starved near to death, and I thought… maybe…”

Papyrus heaves one of his all-telling sighs. Sans is gonna pay for this later, he just knows it. Resigned, Sans closes his eyes and leans back against the plank board wall, keeping the phone pressed to his skull.

“I couldn’t feel any magic from ‘em, Pap,” he repeats after a long, tense silence charged with disappointment. “I honestly thought they weren’t gonna make it overnight.”

Papyrus doesn’t say anything, but his groan speaks volumes. He must be fighting the urge to tear a strip off him right there, which probably means he either trusts Sans’s judgement, or that he’s not in an appropriate area for an outburst. Either that, or it occurs to him that Sans would’ve struggled by himself to dispose of their new guest’s remains.

Sans curls his fingers around the cord, listening to the silence. He knows that this is a gamble with Papyrus’s feelings. Their grandfather died in their house. To have a dying stranger here… it feels too familiar. Too soon despite the long years that have passed.

“Paps?” he calls. He doesn’t mean for his voice to sound that hoarse.

Papyrus sighs one final time.  _ “Well, _ if you think they’re going to hold out until I get there,” he mutters wryly, though there’s no derision or disapproval in his tone. Hopefully, Sans smiles despite himself. “I’ll bring the side-by and a healer to check them over. What sort are they?”

Sans can’t help but peek into the room again. This time when he lays his eyes onto their sleeping form, he thinks he sees the skeleton’s ribs gently rise, then fall.

Stunned, Sans stretches the cord out so he can get closer, in case something in the air is playing tricks on him. He doesn’t blink, tuning out the words spoken over the phone until he sees the blanket lower ever so slightly with his guest’s next exhale.

They’re recovering.

Papyrus mutters something protective and slightly irritated from his end of the call. Sans cuts him off, awed. “They’re breathing.”

“They’re..? No, I mean, what sort of monster are they!!”

Sans can’t help the relieved, hopeful smile that breaks over his face when he sees the blanket rise, then fall in measured slow beats. “Sorry, they’re like us. It’s just that, they weren’t breathing before,” he almost chokes.

When their grandfather stopped breathing, they knew it was only a matter of time before he gave up and passed away. That’s when Sans left, unable to handle it, seeking solitude in their old barn. Too close to home, Sans had been burying that part of him that was scared to get rid of monster dust.

Papyrus’s voice softens, “I’ll make my way back, then.” Sans knows he won’t acknowledge how much of a big deal this is, but Sans can feel the relieved tension pool out of him with those few words. “See you in a couple hours.”

“Yeah. Love ya, drive safe.”

In the meantime, Sans washes their clothes. The faded blue jacket softens in the water like it hasn’t been washed in ages, and the fur around the collar is matted and tangled. There are patches and strange sigils sewn into it that he doesn’t recognise, but he leaves them be and scrubs the denim fabric until most of the mud is gone. The grass stains remain. He’s not bothered by it. When he’s finished, Sans squeezes out the excess water and drapes the jacket, thin t-shirt, and shorts over the chair on the back porch to dry.

It’ll take time for Papyrus to scrounge up an available healer and to make his way back home, so Sans wanders the outcropping a few hundred yards from their house and stacks wood to be used for the stove in the winter. The stones are sturdy and are interwoven with wisteria, dried out and dormant for their long winter sleep. He thinks that maybe he’ll plant peas alongside them in the spring for an excuse to come over here more often.

Despite their years there, he’s still learning things. Garlic is planted in the fall, carrots can be left in the ground until use, and a hole in the ground packed with snow and covered with stones can make for a good makeshift refrigerator. Felled wood has to be dried for up to six months.

They have a sandpit to make bags in case the banks flood, which they always do in the spring. He’s been meaning to try to toil the earth and mix in crops that’ll suit that part of their land better, but he hasn’t quite figured it out. Maybe he’ll try flowers…

Before he knows it, Sans is sweaty from being hunched over in the dirt, pushing cloves of garlic into the soil and covering them to sleep until spring. When he hears the grumble of their ATV humming up the road, Sans makes his way back to the house, his body achy and sore.

He makes it there before Papyrus does and has time to wash his hands before his brother barges through the door with a meek-looking healer. She’s one that’s been here before, a doey girl with blond hair, twig-like antlers, and a slender black nose. She’s covered head to toe with a brightly coloured cloak with a hood, decorated with tiny hand-sewn snowflakes. She doesn’t talk much, but Sans remembers her name is Abby.

Sans and Papyrus exchange a quick look. He’s just the same as when he’d left, but it doesn’t stop Sans from visibly relaxing when he sees that nothing’s wrong. He knows and trusts that Papyrus can take care of himself. Papyrus knows the same for him. But something relieved always clicks into place whenever they see each other after a period of absence.

Sans relaxes when he’s back in the house and nearby. After showing Papyrus and the healer where to go, he lingers by the door to the guest room where the sleeping skeleton lies, and watches.

At first, Abby just studies them. Papyrus moves a little towards the door and mumbles under his breath, “I did not realise it was to this point.”

Sans detects a hint of apology, but gives his brother a pat from the door jamb. He doesn’t give anything more than an unsure shrug. “They were worser.”

“Worse.”

Sans winks, not feeling it. “But now y’know why I didn’t call about ‘em till today,” he explains, keeping his voice level and quiet as he watches Abby lay a hand over the unconscious skeleton’s chest. Then there’s the resounding flinch. She murmurs something to her patient, but Sans doesn’t hear it.

“Where did you find them?” his brother whispers.

Sans nods vaguely somewhere to the left, not taking his gaze from the duo. “Out back by the creek. Haven’t been out that way for a week or two. God knows how long they’ve been there.”

It sounds like he’s beating himself up over it. Papyrus sighs gently and rubs his knuckles over his head for comfort. A reminder not to blame himself.

“They’ve made it this far,” he assures Sans.

Sans nods to himself. He attempts to ease the shuddering breath he feels locked in his throat into something more level. The healer moves carefully, green magic at her fingertips that filter off in peculiar little coils and wisps. The healing magic doesn’t sink down into the skeleton’s body like it should be.

She sighs, her small features creased into a frown, then she tries again.

And again.

And once more.

“It’s not taking…” Abby says, concerned as she turns to them. There’s a sheen of sweat wetting her fur and she carefully dabs it away with her forearm. One more time, she covers the skeleton’s chest with both of her hands and attempts to push magic into them.

Papyrus’s voice is bare. “Oh.”

Sans lowers his gaze to the floor by Abby’s feet, the brim of his straw hat obscuring his face.

“I, uh,” he tries, though he’s not sure what to say anymore. “I tried givin’ them food. It was workin’ real good earlier, and, uh…” He fidgets with the string on his hat. Trying to conceal the way his hand trembles, he drops it down to the buckle on his overalls. “It was  _ working.” _

Abby brushes a lock of blond hair over her shoulder and looks back to them, her beady eyes slightly glassy. She looks like a slow realisation dawned upon her and she’s frightened to even be nearby. Slowly, she slips a little ways from the injured monster’s side.

“I don’t think I can heal a Fell monster.”

Despite her protests, she tries again. She tries and tries until her hands are shaking and there’s a wild, terrified look in her eyes. After the last attempt, Sans goes to her and rests a hand on her shoulder. Even without words, she knows it’s fruitless to continue, but it doesn’t make it any easier to accept. She sniffles wetly as she graciously accepts the handkerchief Papyrus hands to her.

Not realising that he’d zoned out, Sans feels his brother’s hand on his forearm, a brief squeeze of comfort. Then it’s gone. Sans keeps his eyes downcast.

He knows without saying it how much he was really hoping they’d pull through. And if none of them can heal them… there isn’t much more of a choice Sans has but to accept the inevitable.

So despite him really wanting otherwise, it’s a good thing Sans decided to wash their clothes after all.


	4. Chapter 4

Papyrus is kind enough to lead the healer away from the room for a glass of water and a bite to eat. He thanks her, murmuring reassurances and kind words to her until Sans can no longer hear them anymore.

He stands alone in the middle of the room, a pit in his soul where his hope that this stranger would live used to be.

But… he hadn’t realised that they were a Fell monster. It was mainly because those who were Fell didn’t come to the surface. While they were locked away for centuries, monsters on the surface enjoyed freedom while their feral counterparts writhed and shrieked below ground.

Or so they say. To be honest, the monster before him doesn’t look any worse than Sans does on one of his bad days. They need a bath and apart from some knicks and scrapes and the hole in their skull, they don’t look that scary.

But Fell monsters were different. Healing magic doesn’t work on them for the presence of their LV, and Sans doesn’t know how to feel about that. Nor does he know this person’s history, their struggles or their customs.

If anything, he could be inviting danger into his and Papyrus’s home and not even realise it.

Or, they would be grateful and slip away in the night when they had the strength.

Sans didn’t know which was more concerning. The more he looks over their face, the more he feels that he should at least try. They were a person. Everyone deserves a shot.

And if they became hostile when they woke, well… If worse comes to worst, Sans has his knife.

Papyrus appears hesitant to leave Sans alone. He fusses, hugs him tight and tells him to lock the door. Sans just nods against him, holding onto him, letting himself be comforted until he hears Abby’s sniffling from the front door. Then he backs off, his grin crooked, and makes a show of adjusting Papyrus’s bright suspenders for him.

“You’ll be ok?” Papyrus looks down as he speaks, as though he doesn’t trust Sans not to blame himself despite how many times he’s told him not to. “Really?”

“Yeah,” Sans gruffly replies, his grin tight and forced. “Like she says, they, uh… they’re not gonna get up anytime soon.”

Something in Papyrus’s gaze tightens and Sans forces himself to look away before it starts to chip away at his resolve. He’s already restraining himself from fleeing to the barn, ready to stare up at the stars on the roof and arrange the bales until Papyrus gets back.

“I’ll be ok, Paps,” Sans whispers a little hoarsely. “Bring Abby home. Give her somethin’ for her trouble. Tell ‘er I’m sorry for dragging her out all this way.”

Though they had only just parted, Papyrus swings back to throw his arms around Sans, pulling him tight to his chest. It jerks a startled grunt from Sans and he can’t help but chuckle. Awkwardly, he pats Papyrus’s back until he lets go.

“I’ll do no such thing! That is, the apologising, since she had wanted to come anyway. I want you to promise me that you’ll take care of yourself. And eat something besides that smelly mushroom stew!” Papyrus would probably wrinkle his nose if he had one, but the grimace he wears is almost comparable.

Sans just grins up at him when he’s released, held by his arms until he gives in with a nod.

Then, just like that, he’s on his own again.

He’s not sure for how long he stands in the kitchen. Thoughts churn slowly throughout his head. They don’t make any sense, mixing around dream-like information he once had in another life. It’d almost be poetic if it wasn’t annoyingly infuriating, but he can’t place the reason why he goes back into the guest room.

The stranger sleeps. They still breathe, but they’re not any better for the healing session. The bowl of food next to them from that morning is untouched, and it weighs heavily on Sans’s mind that they’re no longer eating.

Maybe it was a fluke. A last ditch effort like the small light he’d seen in their eye socket? At any rate, his brother’s right; he needs to get a proper meal in him.

He keeps the door open so he can peek inside as he cooks. Soon, the entire house smells like roasted garlic, maple-cured bacon and the heady scent of potatoes. For a flair, Sans pours some chopped chillies onto the potatoes and mashes them around with his fork, adds butter, salt, and cracked pepper. The whole plate steams with the scent of his favourite dish.

When he sits down to eat, he’s again taken by the sudden urge to share with the stranger in the room. He doesn’t know why; they’re unconscious, but it seems rude. They’re not even eating the mix he’d given to them earlier. Why does he feel this way?

He can’t help it. Sans sighs after a good few moments of deliberation and chews the rest of his mouthful before picking up his plate.

“Hey, buddy,” he says upon entry to the room. Sadly, they don’t reply. He’d almost hoped. “Mind if I chow in here? I kinda like company, don’t know about you, but…” Sans shrugs to himself and pulls the chair near, tips off his hat and then hangs it over the bedpost. Like he’s talking to an old friend, he seats himself by the bed. “Y’want some bacon? Maple cured. Good stuff.”

Though he’s met with silence, nobody can say no to bacon. He portions off a generous chunk with his fingers and leans over to offer it to their mouth. He waits a long moment, maybe too long if his spine has anything to say about it, and so Sans leans back again to straighten the crick.

“It’s not for everyone, I suppose,” he murmurs as he turns the piece over in his hands. Then he takes a bite. “Either that, or you’re a picky eater. Y’want more cheese? I can probably scrounge some up for ya.”

Rather than expecting an answer, it’s more of a comfort thing to speak with them, so Sans just shrugs to himself and places a squishy-soft, sweet-smelling clove of roasted garlic into the bowl by their head.

“Sorry for the prodding you had to endure, by the way,” Sans continues between mouthfuls. “Abby’s a good girl. She really wanted to help you.” Sans looks down to their mouth, a stray thought coming to him. He looks away. “Says Fell folk can’t accept healing.”

_ Says the Fell eat the meat of other monsters. _

Welp, Sans doesn’t have meat so both he and Papyrus are safe, though the marrow deep in his bones suddenly tingles with quiet fear. He’s probably just being paranoid.

Suddenly, Sans looks at the bit of bacon on his plate and tests the mouthful of it held behind his teeth with his tongue. It converts easily to energy, filtering into his body like tiny beads of light. It’s easy enough to do, but as soon as he spits it out, it’ll become solid again, not the fog-like wisps of magic that trickle around his jaw and down his vertebrae.

He looks to the Fell monster’s chalky teeth, the food ignored in their bowl. Their weak limbs, bare magic and scarce breathing.

He should try to feed them. If anything, the persistent presence of food might get their magic to manifest again.

Sans brings the nightstand closer and shimmies between it and the bed so he’s sitting on the edge of the mattress. His guest has nothing to say to that, nor do they object when he scoops an arm under their slight shoulders to bring them up.

They move as easily as a rag doll. Sans feels some bitter hurt when their skull lolls onto his chest and stays there, like the residual emotions in their final conscious moments are bleeding out of them. For a moment, he just holds them.

He cradles their head in the crux of his elbow, making sure the angle isn’t too sharp or uncomfortable. Their arm lays pinned against his ribs and their hand negligibly rests on his thigh. Sans takes a pillow and wedges it under his arm for good measure. He tries to gauge whether or not there’s consciousness behind those dark eye sockets, but he can’t detect a thing.

Left with no other choice, Sans carefully reaches for the fork from his plate, loads it with a bit of potato, and brings it to their teeth.

He waits.

Their magic doesn’t even drift. Whatever had happened when they were absorbing earlier isn’t happening now.

“Go on, buddy,” he says gently. “Just a bit of salt and pepper, a bit of butter, some chillies. It’s good potatoes.”

No matter how good the potatoes are, his Fallen guest doesn’t make an attempt. Unable to help himself, Sans’s hold on them tightens a little.

“Can ya try for me?” he says softly. “Promise it ain’t poisoned.”

Despite his trustworthy tone, Sans’s plea remains unanswered.

Maybe it’s that they just don’t like chillies in their potatoes. Sans keeps the Fell monster half-propped in his arm as he reaches over to spear some bacon and a small clove of roasted garlic.

“One more time,” he breathes tightly, and waits. Though they aren’t heavy at all, the angle starts to make Sans’s arm tingle. The stray thought comes back from some shadowed place in his memory. He thinks of the way food converts to energy in his mouth.

What if they just needed help? Could this be his only way to aid them since they were too weak to do it themself?

He takes the portion of food they didn’t absorb and pops it into his mouth. He could give it a shot. He’s got the knife on his plate if something bad happens.

It’s not common, but it generally isn’t done anymore. It’s for those who share a bond far closer than friends. Besides, they’re a complete stranger. And it’s so intimate…

Sans hesitates. While he does, the food in his mouth seeps into his ambient magic. Unable to remain still, he carefully manoeuvres the Fell monster back into the sheets and gets up. Sans stares at them, holding the converted energy in his mouth. He twists his sleeve between his fingers, then turns to pace around the room.

What the hell is he doing? Why is he hesitating? Because of a little  _ what-if? _ A change in his heart when he knows they’ll get better?

But…

He feels responsible for them. Sans can’t just let them waste away when he can try an alternative.

It’s just a jumpstart to get things going. That’s acceptable, right?

…

He waited too long; his mouthful’s gone. He shovels the next one in with a good amount of bacon for good measure, hoping that the meat-converted-to-magic energy will be sufficient to keep them from Falling further.

Even as he leans in, Sans notes their shallow breaths with renewed attention like it’s a chore for them to keep going. It looks like it just downright  _ hurts. _ Now that he’s this close, Sans can detect the irony scent of blood, but they don’t look like they’d hurt a fly. Nor are they injured. They’re in desperate need of help, and Sans has a solution.

Eat some meat and share it through the teeth. Direct magic sharing. Emergency resuscitation.

_ Sorry, _ Sans thinks as the mattress dips under his knee when he lowers himself down to their level.  _ It’s all I can think of. _

He knows where to touch to get their jaw to unlock; they’re not so different. He uses the tip of his finger to pry their mouth open, slack and easy. Their teeth are blunt like his, but the slats feel as sharp as a razor’s edge. He gets in close, breathing in through his nasal aperture, and slots their teeth together.

Magic passes between them at the contact point. For a moment, Sans feels like he’s going to reel forward into their personal space, but it’s more of a balance issue than anything else. He braces his hand beside the pillow next to their head to compensate.

They don’t push him off nor do they make a noise, but he feels a definite surge in the air like a window in the world just flew open. He can detect the first flutters of magic gathering in their bones as he tilts up their jaw to accept all that he offers them, and their body greedily, hungrily latches on.

It doesn’t take long for the energy to exchange bodies.

When Sans slowly parts from them and eases back onto his leg, his breathing is a little shaky. There had been a quiet fear inside of him that maybe they wake up and bite down, but nothing like that had happened at all. The Fell monster’s weak magic had latched onto his almost like a parasite, starving and in agony.

He’d almost felt it.

“There you go,” Sans whispers warmly. There’s a scant heat to his face when he notices the pale rosiness start to creep into their joints. As it deepens, it takes on that rust red colour he’d seen upon their first encounter. “You up for a little more?”

He doesn’t need to ask to know that they’re starved for anything he can spare. The next time Sans bends down, his soul gives a heady lurch as the Fell monster’s magic clings desperately to him.

Under his mouth, their breath stutters inward, the deepest they’ve taken since Sans found them. Sans’s eyes widen and he jerks away when he sees a peep of red haze up and flicker in their eye socket. Just as quickly, it sputters out again, leaving only darkness staring back at him.

_ It’s working. _

This time, Sans feels how starved they are. None of the food absorbs into his mouth, all pulled from him to sate their insatiable hunger. For a moment, he feels the twist and spark of sputtering magic and hears a soft fizz like tiny firecrackers. It’s the sound monsters make when they’re hungry.

They’re getting better. They’re sending signals again, a silent claxon into the air that they need help. It’s involuntary, but Sans reads them loud and clear.

_ They’re starving. _

The third time he presses their teeth together, there’s a longer draw on the energy passed between them. Something tugs at Sans’s magic from deep within, flooding him with fatigue. He detects a sharp tang in his mouth, a brief taste of iron. It doesn’t taste like magic.

A little exhausted, he doesn’t linger. Whether or not it’s due to the fact that he’s spending energy to eat and not getting any sustenance for his trouble, Sans doesn’t know. All he knows is that it feels like his guest is taking more than what he is offering.

It’s probably a good time to stop and actually eat his own food. It’s been a long day and it’s just past noon, but Sans suddenly feels like he’s been working for days without any sleep. He’ll blame it on the fact that he normally takes a few naps by now and he’s already seven hours into the day without a break.

A little wobbly, Sans carefully pushes himself off the mattress. The Fell monster appears to be breathing easier now. As Sans sinks onto the chair to finish the rest of his late lunch, he thinks they seem a little more relaxed.

That’s good.

They might not have been able to heal them, but Sans is a little pleased with himself that the uncommon knowledge he had helped save a life.

At least, he thinks so.

He hopes.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The magic sharing was originally Muskka's idea but I loved it so much and it fit into the narrative that uh... hehehe........ :>  
> Muskka coloured the sketch this was inspired by!!! [You can see it here!](https://twitter.com/Muskka_mu/status/1319011687761170446) :3


	5. Chapter 5

When Sans wakes up, he doesn’t even remember falling asleep. Nor does he recall pulling the throw around him from the chair he’s curled up on, but he must have some time during his nap. Wearily, he looks around to take stock of where he is. The Fell monster rests in the bed, exactly how he’d left them, not a stitch out of place.

Sans gives a jaw-clicking yawn. The sun has already set, its dim remnants of light shining through the window. It casts a warm glow over the two of them, but the house has since grown chilly with its growing departure. Cosy under the throw, Sans realises that he’s let the stove go out. That, and he had neglected to do a fair amount of his chores that day.

His body protests despite how much he pushes himself to get up and go. Instead of feeling well rested, it’s like he got hit by a train. He keeps the throw slung around his shoulders as he fumbles around in the drawer for some matches and lights a candle on the shelf for a bit of light. He can’t see much, but he can tell that his guest must be feeling a lot better. The clove of roasted garlic is missing, too.

Smiling warmly, Sans checks them over. They really haven’t moved, the magic in their joints weak but growing stronger. They’re not Fallen-cold, but he’s not sure if their chilliness has to do with the fact that there’s not any heating in the room. By contrast, his hands must feel hot to the touch.

He decides not to fuss with them too much. Grimacing at the temperature change, Sans unslings the throw from around his shoulders and lays it over the Fell monster to cocoon them in. Their breaths deepen momentarily, like some blink of consciousness is starting to bud from the warmth of another person. When Sans pauses to check, it levels out within the span of a few seconds.

“Rest up, buddy,” Sans murmurs, sounding more tired than he originally thought he was. Blearily, he rubs at his face and toddles over to the kitchen for a snack, feeling half-asleep and barely awake than he’s been in years.

He wanders like a ghost around his own home. It takes a few tries for his brain to register that he entered the kitchen for food as well as to light the stove. If it wasn’t for Brinley, he’d crawl right into bed. It’s admittedly later than he usually feeds her. He’ll bring some oats and flint corn for a treat.

For now, he gets the stove going. The light from the small fire is bright enough to make his eyes water. He chalks it up to being dead on his feet, which is an odd sensation. He hasn’t felt this bone-tired in ages.

Once the kindling catches, he blows on the embers to get them going, feeding the fire with small sticks and split wood until he’s flooded with warmth. It beats on his face as he crouches by it, soaking up the heat like a sleepy cat.

And he nearly falls asleep, too. He gives his head a shake. It’s too early for that. He’ll head to bed when Brinley’s fed and he’s done a couple more things. Once the fire is good, he stuffs another log into the stove’s opening and closes the grill. Then he ambles to the back door, takes his guest’s clothes from the porch where they’re still a little damp, and brings them inside to dry by the stove.

Negligibly, he waves to the Fell monster with a gentle call. “I’m checking on my baby again and I’ll be back. It should get a little warmer in there soon. Rest up, buddy.”

Then he leaves, but not before lighting a couple oil lamps. It’ll be easier to creep into bed if he’s not fumbling around in the dark on his way back.

On barely registering autopilot, Sans pulls on his gumboots and a thick fleece, blue plaid sweater to guard him from the chill. Then he hobbles out the back door, closes it behind him, and yawns as he stumbles towards the barn.

Brinley is a great oaf of an ox, but Sans loves her. Stubborn, just like him. She gives an indignant snort when he enters the barn with a quiet hum. She plays coy when he comes around as punishment for forgetting about her until so late in the day. Not like she’ll go hungry -- Sans tends to spoil her with an extra bucket of feed. When he trudges close to her, she swings her large head around to peer at him from behind bushy hairs and gives another snort.

“I know, baby, I’m sorry,” Sans coos gently as he reaches out to pat her. Unashamedly, she butts her head against his hand and hangs her head over the steel rail gate. “I had-” he corrects himself, “have a guest. Bony folk, just like us.”

He gives her a rubdown with one of the blankets to warm her up, then carefully unhooks the gate and makes his way inside to tidy up.

“Was kinda worried ‘bout them,” he continues, like she’s asking silent questions. Sans briefly leaves the enclosure to fill up the trough with feed and fodder. He breaks to yawn again, scratches his hip, then grabs the bucket from its place on the wall. “I’m hopin’ they make it. And if-” He catches himself again, toying with the handle in his hands. “-when they get their strength back… I’ll bring ‘em by to say hi to ya before they leave.”

Brinley blows out of her nostrils in reply, then hangs her head down to eat some of the fresh food. Sans just grins to himself and plucks a sprig of wheat to teethe while he works. He likes the taste, faintly nutty and sweet.

He makes his way back to the well with the bucket in hand, interrupted by intermittent yawns. Despite having slept for most of the day, he still feels tired. As though for the past ten years or so, he hadn’t been used to getting up at the crack of dawn on a daily basis.

He just shrugs to himself. He’s had a long day.

As he bails up water from the well not far from the fields, Sans’s mind drifts to the person left sleeping in their guest room. As though the thought prompts him, Sans looks up to the house, giving the sprig of wheat a tentative squeeze with his teeth. It’s not like before when he was fine with leaving them alone while he did a few chores. It almost feels like he should be watching over them.

He’s starting to fret a little.

Antsy, Sans lifts up the bucket and unties it from the lead, then carries it back to the barn for his ox. She’s happy to have the company, even stamps her hooves a little when he refills her trough with fresh water. She’s adorable for an old broad, but she’s his baby. He can’t keep away for long.

She tends to get restless if he just leaves her, so he makes sure to stroke her neck and pat her shoulders enough to hopefully guile her into thinking that enough time has passed so she’ll allow him to leave. No such luck. When Sans starts to sneak away, she swings her head back and catches him in the chest, knocking him to his feet with a grunt.

“I get it, Brinny, y’missed me,” he chuckles as he dusts himself off and swipes bits of hay and hair from his jacket. “I gotta check on ‘em, though. It’s probably been an hour.”

Brinley stares at him with her big dark eyes, groaning low in her throat when she pauses her cud. Sans gives her a meek smile like it’ll excuse him from further beratement.

“If they wake up, and I’m not there…” Sans says haltingly. He scratches the side of his neck and plucks out a few more itchy pieces of hay. “I dunno.”

He sits for awhile longer, but he scoots back to the wall and idly plays with a handful of straw, braiding it between his fingers in an effort to keep busy and to stay awake.

“Am I allowed to get up yet?” he asks the ox after a long silence, just watching her eat. She flicks her tail, and Sans leans against the wall, shivering in the cold. “So full of sass today. M’sorry for being late, baby. Will you forgive me?”

Brinley does her best impression of a  _ harumph _ and slops up some water, then after kneels to lay down nearby him. Sans watches her -- he’s not afraid, but she’s a clumsy old girl and he’d rather not get accidentally crushed.

When she bellows, it’s like she’s trying to tell him to huddle up with her. Sometimes, she has nights like these. Thinking about the skeleton in bed in their home, Sans debates getting up anyway to check on them. He can’t help but wonder if they’re ok, or if they need more energy fed to them, or…

In all honesty, Sans is exhausted. It’s a wonder he didn’t pass out when he sat down, and Brinley’s big and warm. Her hair’s scraggly and she looks more like something from a northern fairytale about humans crossing the upper continent than an actual musk ox. It’s kind of neat how long her hair is, like a big brown beard that spans her whole body.

It makes her warm. He can’t say no, not to her, this giant gentle baby that’s older than he is. Sans moves and she grunts a warning huff, but once she realises it’s only to huddle closer, she settles right down and lays her head on Sans’s knee.

And he’s trapped there now, whether he wants to be or not. Sans sighs deeply and pulls the collar of his sweater up around his neck to stave off the chill. He’ll have to bring out the heater for her tomorrow night.

For now, he’s doomed to sleep in the barn with a cuddly old ox. Which is ok. He doesn’t mind it. He leans onto her big heavy side to share her body heat and lets slumber claim him.

~

Like clockwork, Sans’s body responds to the first light of day. Consciousness flits into his head, stuffy with a mild ache, but nothing too serious. Brinley heaves a great sigh, her triumph at keeping him landlocked now complete as she gets up and backs off to take more water, leaving Sans crumpled on the floor.

He’s covered in hay, twigs and hair. He brushes it off negligibly and hauls himself up to give his ox an affectionate headbutt, then stumbles out of the enclosure and into the pale autumn dawn.

It’s still cold, but the first breaths of sunlight warm him like a radiant beam of relief. His poor bones need it. That, and a bath. Papyrus will have words for him for dragging stink into their house again, but-

The thought stops there. The house, the room, the guest all come back to him. There’s a plaintive hope in his chest that they’ve got more strength, but it doubles as something a bit more bitter that he expects something -- if not nothing -- far more sadder than that.

So he locks the gate to the barn and shakes out his sweater as he stumbles his way over cold and hard patches of dirt, watching as his puffed breaths eventually disappear as the temperature rises.

The house is nice and toasty when he creaks open the back door. The stove is still going, so Sans approaches it and warms his hands over the grill to get the feeling to return to his fingers. As he gradually wakes and warms up, he notices a light flashing on their answering machine. It must’ve been Papyrus, since he had missed his daily call.

Straightening, Sans goes to retrieve the message and pushes play. Papyrus’s voice is a low tinny register, but the message is clear.

“Hello, brother. It’s me, I… don’t know if I’m doing the right thing here, leaving you on your own while that person is, well…”

A long silence. Sans swallows as the weight of the message settles over him.

_ Dying. _

“I know you can take care of yourself. I just do not want you blaming yourself, alright? You did what you could. They were too far gone already. I believe you can hold out until I get back, right? If you can’t, please.  _ Please, _ call me and tell me. Don’t try to do this all yourself. You’re my brother and I love you very much-” Sans grins slightly and spins the cord in between his fingers to keep his hands from shaking. “-but you cannot make yourself accountable for what happens to others in life. Even if you think you can save them. Don’t tear yourself up over this… please?”

All the while, Sans can’t help but feel like he’s being watched. As his brother’s gentle reminders continue, Sans looks around for an errant cat or a bird in the window down the hall, but he doesn’t spot anything. What he can see is a slight flicker in the room beyond, the door ajar as he left it, the Fell monster’s body just barely in view.

Sans pauses, a tingle settling into the centre of his spine. There’s a small hope in his heart when he pivots to turn, then tilts his head to peer at them at a better angle. He leans into the movement, trying to see their skull just out of view without going into the room. Slowly, without listening to the rest of the message, he hangs the receiver back onto the hook and creeps a little down the hallway.

There’s a haze of magic. It’s rusty red like a sunset just before a storm, or like bright terracotta, from the rich earth. It’s nestled in their left eye socket, almost as wide as the space is. They seem to detect that someone else is in the house.

Slowly, they move a finger. It doesn’t go far, but it’s far more than Sans had ever hoped to see so quickly. The tentative hopelessness in his chest swells into something very different.

Sans can’t believe it. His soul jolts with heavy relief, soaring him into something so intangible and free that he can’t help but stare, his mouth agape. He takes a few tentative steps forward, his boots scuffing the floorboards. Once. Twice.

The bloom of red magic darts his way, but it’s weak. He’s still several feet away, but he can see the defensive curl the Fell monster attempts thanks to his disturbance. They don’t make it far. Their breaths are scattered and audible, on the verge of rising panic. Sans gently approaches, unable to help the soft chuckle that escapes him when he draws nearer to the door. He raises his hand in a placating gesture.

“Well, now,” he says amiably. Sans is able to ignore the heavy, anticipatory throb in his chest as he leans against the door jamb and stuffs a hand into his pocket. He tries to project how harmless he is, that he won’t hurt them, all relaxed and at ease. “Mornin’, sleepyhead.”


	6. Chapter 6

When Sans takes a few steps forward, he knows he’s pushing his luck. It all happens so fast. In one moment he’s standing in the middle of the room, and in the next everything topples like a poorly stacked pile of firewood. Sans sees a bright glow, an approaching blur as quick as lightning. Abruptly, he’s thrown to the ground, the wind knocked out of him.

Sans finds himself dazed on the floor. The back of his head angrily screams at him, though his skull doesn’t feel broken. It hurts like a son of a gun. What he’s more concerned of is the Fell monster’s unnatural strength weighing him down to the scuffed floor and the razor-sharp teeth testing the slope of his collarbone through his shirt.

They’ve got him pinned, their hands cold and holding his wrists flat to the floor. The energy around them crackles, the emotions bleeding into Sans from the monster above him. It doesn’t excuse the fact that they’ve been starving, but the amount of energy they pour into holding themselves steady makes Sans consider what’s happening very, very carefully.

He’s heard of this. Grandpa liked to tell stories. But now isn’t the time; not when Sans’s brain refuses to cooperate. He freezes, disobeying every instinct he has to buck them off and regret every instance that led up to them being here. His next exhale shakes like a rattlesnake when their teeth squeeze down on his clavicle.

They’re just testing the bone. Seeing how far they can go before they’re struck down.

A warning.

“S’ok,” Sans whispers as calmly as he can. It doesn’t work very well. “S’ok. I didn’t mean t’scare ya.”

Uneasily, Sans swallows. His brain grimly imagines teeth cracking into bone and a wayward shiver prickles its way around the spot.

_Or maybe they’re going to eat him after all._

“I know h.. how it is,” Sans says quietly. He can both hear and feel the short, gusty gasps of their troubled breathing against his vertebrae. “Fall asleep and wake up in another place, I-”

They squeeze his wrists. Ok, this might not be working. Sans attempts with no success to look down to their face, pressed up against him. He can see a new shard missing from the crease of their head wound. He feels their right knee pressed into his side.

Though he should be more afraid than he actually is, Sans feels pity for this poor soul. He doesn’t resist the restraints, but there’s a ramrod tension in his spine. By comparison, there’s a quiver in the way they hold themself, like they don’t quite have the strength to keep this up for long.

At the same time, Sans doesn’t know what they’ll do. He’s still exhausted from that morning. If he had to think about it, he probably gave a lot more than he should have. That, or they took without meaning to.

_Or they took what they intended to._

Sans decides to do what he does best and talks to them like they’re an old friend.

“Listen, buddy,” he starts, keeping his voice soft and smooth. “This must be takin’ a toll on you. I’m plum happy to see you up and at ‘em, but…” He falters, hissing out when they test their teeth around his clavicle again. “M’not good eatin’, man. I’m all bone, not filling at all-”

Strangely, as though he was convincing enough, the pressure eases. Sans thinks he can still feel the lines of their teeth etched into bone.

“I got a couple of acorn squashes, goes real good with butter and roasted in the oven with cinnamon,” he mumbles, realising how hungry he is himself. “Got some flint flour. I can m-” He grimaces, his words breaking off onto an indignant huff. “I can make some biscuits. Or even fry up some eggs and mash. You cool with that?”

As though weighing their options, the Fell monster pauses as Sans murmurs. For a moment, Sans thinks he sees a startling thing -- a flood of deep red magic in their left eye, a sliver of it broken vertically, feline and sharp. The weight on his wrists trembles.

It’s hard for them to keep this up.

“I’m not gonna hurt you,” Sans says, trying to sound convincing. He blinks to clear the daze from his eyes, lifting a sardonic brow as though in afterthought. “Coulda warned me you were on the fence of jumpin’ my bones, though.”

They don’t answer. Then after another long moment, like it’s suddenly hard to do, the Fell monster slowly slides their teeth apart, freeing his clavicle. Their body trembles, drained of strength. Whatever gas that was in the tank had likely only been fumes.

They crash hard. Since they were in the middle of pinning him down, Sans is rewarded with another whack to the head, this time making him see stars. Their body is light, but the tension eases as they slump forward.

Sans swallows again, this time flushed. He studies the spackled ceiling for a moment until the pips of light gradually float away from his vision.

“Man…” he huffs. He attempts to extricate himself from under the Fell monster and manages not to fully dump them onto the floor. Once a hand is freed, Sans slings them against his body and rubs at the spot on his head where their skulls collided with a wince.

Pressed up against his chest, Sans can tell that they’re a little warmer than before. They also move easier, like there’s more magic holding them together. Their consciousness lingers like an old ache, but the bright stark crimson of their eye light has faded down to a soft ember.

“There, it’s ok, buddy,” Sans murmurs to them. “Let’s get you up and fed, ok?”

It’s a production to get up off the floor, managing limbs both his own and not. Sans manages to bring them up and hoists their legs over his arm, cradling their shoulders with his other one. He tucks them up onto the bed, then staggers to his feet. It seems like he’s not the only one running on fumes.

But he’s loathe to leave them on their own. He’d rather them not be alone for any longer than they’ve already been -- the Fell monster had reacted in a feral panic, testing how much of a threat he was. That puts a sour taste in Sans’s mouth, and not just because he’s hungry.

To keep them close by, Sans pulls the armchair from the living room into the kitchen and by the stove. Since they’ve proven that they’ve _not_ Fallen and can in fact move on their own when prompted, it’s probably safe to say they can withstand warmer temperatures while Sans cooks them both a meal.

A little leery of any more wayward surprises, Sans braces himself as he creeps back down the hall. His charge lays on the bed where he left them. Carefully, Sans shudders out a breath he didn’t realise that he’d been holding.

“Hey, buddy,” Sans whispers gently. The magic in their eye socket stirs, but nothing comes of it. Sans settles down next to them, wraps the blanket around them again and lifts them up. “I’m startin’ to feel a little self-conscious since I don’t know what you go by,” he admits a little shyly. “I hope you don’t mind ‘buddy’. I think it’s neutral as far as nicknames go, hm?”

It doesn’t bother him that they don’t answer, but he kind of hopes they eventually will. They’re easy to carry now that they’re not all akimbo, and the slight shift of their ribs moving makes his soul shiver and pulse with thinly veiled excitement.

_They’re getting better._

Whether or not that’s a good thing, he doesn’t know. He knows they had acted out of self-preservation, but they’re still a Fell monster. That means LV, danger, a threat to the very life he and his brother had built up.

He decides not to think about it. Sans can convince himself of a great deal if he turns a blind eye to it. As such, the Fell monster isn’t a threat if he keeps his guard up. It’s been a steady, carefree decade or so since he’s let his guard permanently drop, so it’s like exercising a muscle that he doesn’t normally use.

He carefully deposits them into the padded armchair by the stove, tucking them in snugly so they can’t lash out should they get the urge. It’s not hot, just a gentle warmth that beats over them as Sans starts to pull out crockery and vegetables to slice and chop.

At first, he’s quiet. He usually hums to himself, but when he’s on guard, his mind’s too preoccupied with holding himself tight that he actually notes the slight change in the Fell monster’s breathing when they start to relax. A grin tugs at Sans’s teeth when he glances to his right at them, then starts to hum a low and slow tune.

“I hope you believe me when I say I’m not out to getcha,” Sans says softly. The knife he’s using to slice a yam slowly knocks the wooden chopping board. “No danger here, friend. Just me n’old Brinley, n’she won’t hurt you neither.”

When he glances over again, the haze in their socket is dim and unfocused. Taking pity on them, Sans frowns and wipes his starchy hands on a towel and leans down to offer them a bite of sliced zucchini. They don’t take it. No hint of interest.

“Maybe you’re not hungry…” Sans says even as he doubts his own observation. No, they’re starving.

He scratches the bruise that’s starting to form at his temple, grimacing when he notices the twin mark on the upper right side of their own. Carefully, Sans runs a finger over the tender area on his collarbone. It twinges in complaint, but it’s not cracked or broken.

His mind drifts again to sharing energy with them, but he’s too exhausted to entertain that. He’ll have to get his own strength up before he makes another attempt. And even as weak as they are, it feels… a little more than unnecessary to offer right now.

_Intimate._

He flushes. It’s not like he took advantage of them or anything! He was just doing what he thought was right, and…

Now he’s overthinking it. Sans makes a point to avoid their gaze, as unfocused as it is. He wanders a short distance away back to the stove to liberally incorporate butter into the fry, then goes to the cupboard to root around for proteins.

In a long row of the pantry, there hangs dried sausages, jars of fermented beans and salted ham. There are a few braids of garlic and chillies up on the wall, some onions in a bin and a huge sack of potatoes.

He picks what he needs randomly; they’re all his favourites. Garlic, potatoes, a small red onion. The yam is just for a hint of savoury sweetness. On second thought, he puts the potatoes back and brings out a couple links of sausage instead. Then he doubles back, because teasing his poor guest about acorn squash is just terrible.

He prepares the squash first, coring it out with a spoon and slicing it up. “You know, when we moved out here, I used to hate this stove,” he starts, finding his voice unnaturally shy. “Took me forever to figure it out. The fire inside isn’t magic, so it’s hard to control; likes to run off and go out. It’s not as helpful as you’d expect either, but feed it fine and it’ll keep your food hot and your bones warm.”

It’s a cosy thought. Sans glances to their face again. It’s a little more relaxed, but there’s a pinch of pain behind their expression. He takes pity on them and fries up some sausage, slicing it up into thin pieces so it cooks up quickly.

When it’s done, he approaches the Fell monster and again, holds out the meat for them to take. Although it’s slow, their magic yearns towards it, stretched too thin to go any further than it already has. Sans’s magic prickles sympathetically. The hazy rust colour sparks like a striking snake but then fizzles out, weary. Sans doesn’t want to think about how much effort and how long it took to absorb that lone clove of roasted garlic or if it had taken the entire night.

Sans rubs the bruise on his temple, knowing the reason. They’re trying, god, but they’re still so weak. He knows what he has to do. As he stares at the sausage sizzling in the pan in the mix of onions, garlic and yam, it gets harder to push himself into any other reasoning. Using a fork, he spears a bit of sausage from the pan and sets it aside to cool.

“Alright, buddy,” he says with a slight catch to his voice. Mentally, he berates himself for feeling so foolish. “Maybe until you get your strength back… otherwise you’ll get spoiled.”

Maybe if Sans makes a light-hearted joke, he won’t feel so strange about the whole ordeal.

He nears with apprehension in his soul, remembering the dizzying draw from his magic like someone had punched wide holes into the bottom of a bucket. He braces his hand on one of the arms of the chair they’re in, leaning in close to inspect them. The slight cast of rust-iron red is shadowed deep in their skull.

They’re barely awake. But why does he feel strange about it?

Sans swallows more out of nerves than anything else. Then he eases back to grab the bit of cooling sausage and stuffs it into his mouth with the motivation that the sooner he does this, the sooner they’ll be on their feet.

They don’t tense when he approaches, but there’s something different in the way the Fell monster holds themself that throws Sans off. He’s sure that they still expect to be attacked, so Sans shoves the energy into an open pocket in his mouth to hold before he speaks.

“I’m not tryin’ anything funny here,” he says, somewhat pained. He doesn’t mean to grimace, but there it is. They don’t respond, but the colour in their eye socket deepens a little. “I know you’re weak. I know whatcha did was out of self-defense. But I’m not gonna hurt ya.”

He hesitates, and his magic impatiently tries to tug the nutrients into his body. He lets it, since he’ll need his strength, and then he turns to stir their meal. Another few slices of sausage are pulled from the fry to cool as he adds a few spices to taste, plucking bits that are a little too well-done before the rest and popping them into his mouth.

He already feels a little less exhausted. He knows that his guest is watching him, hears the soft fizz of magic signalling to him.

_Hungry._

“I’m glad you’re doin’ much better,” Sans says, more to prepare himself for what’s to come than to make conversation. “You must’ve been weak for a long time,” _not to absorb food yourself,_ he wants to add, but it’d be a little rude to observe. Instead, Sans eats a little more, but then holds it in his mouth until his magic gets the idea that it’s not for him. It makes things easier.

“Uh,” he says, feeling as intelligent as that sounded. Sans moves over and tries to ignore the way his face burns when he cups the side of their face, trying not to make eye contact when he leans in close enough to slot their teeth together.

This time, they don’t draw from him, but the sharp tug of energy is enough to make sparks appear in Sans’s vision. He steadies himself on the arm of the chair with a soft huff when the converted energy is pulled from him. When he backs off, he sees their magic bloom around in an erratic twist, like it doesn’t know what to do with so little energy.

Alright. Sans gives himself a teaspoon of the sauce, reconsiders it, and moves the saucepan away from the heat. It’s already cooked. He takes the remainder of the bread that’s in the upper cupboard and cuts off a couple thick slices to dip. Then he lathers a piece of bread, unceremoniously shoves it into his mouth, waits the half second it takes to convert it to energy, and goes back to his guest.

Their breaths are a little deeper, more relaxed since he was last close. They smell familiar now, like old rusty tools or soot. They seem to expect, although with very little clarity, that Sans is here to help. So Sans tips up their chin to get a better angle that isn’t murder on his back, and lets them absorb from him directly.

For a moment, they don’t. He wonders if with their returning strength, they’re also feeling well enough to connect two and two together. His face burns with embarrassment when he pushes forward a little more, urging them to take it. He doesn’t want them to die.

Eventually, they draw it in. Their breath huffs out in tiny gasps through their nasal aperture, gusting against Sans’s face. There’s a leaden weight in Sans’s chest, shame and reluctance coiling up like some ugly thing. He can feel the heat of their magic in the first vertebrae under their jaw with his fingers.

He carefully withdraws, unable to meet their eyes. It doesn’t work; one sheepish glance their way and he can see the hazy yet calm glow of their oversized eyelight look back to him.

“A, uh… kickstart,” Sans says more to himself than to them. His thoughts race through the empty waters of his skull. Now that they’re awake and somewhat cognisant, he doesn’t know what to say anymore. “I’ll, uh… get some-” He trips over his words. “-a spoon. And. You c’n try for yourself, if that…”

The Fell monster makes a soft huff like a kind of protest when Sans turns and starts to walk to the opposite side of the kitchen, but something about its tone makes Sans give pause. He slowly looks back to them, notes the tension in their body. Uneasily, he smiles.

“I’m not goin’ anywhere, buddy,” he says gently. He gives a wave as he goes to the utensil drawer to grab a spoon. “Just gettin’ a couple of things. I’m right here.”

Maybe they’ve grown used to his mumbling, Sans thinks. He reaches up into the cupboard where their dishes are kept and pulls out a couple of bowls, then for the sake of convenience, opts for only one. Doesn’t matter. They’ve shared energy now. They’re sick, and he’s… well, too lazy to wash another bowl, apparently.

It’s alright, Papyrus isn’t here to confirm that.

Which abruptly reminds Sans that he didn’t listen to the entire message. He makes a mental note to call his brother back and tell him the surprising news that their guest isn’t dying anymore.


	7. Chapter 7

Though they appear to be weak, a slow and steady introduction of broth and occasional vegetables makes the Fell monster’s magic bloom and their bones feel warmer to the touch. Sans sits on the ottoman he’s pulled from the living room, close to them, and carefully introduces a small helping of tender yams in the glazed sauce to their parted teeth.

“Go on, now,” he says gently. It still feels a little odd to coax them into accepting his food, but it’s more like Sans is gentling a wild animal than anything else. The Fell monster almost dozes between spoonfuls of good hearty food, like they’d rather sleep than eat another bite. “Gotta get your strength up, buddy,” he adds for good measure.

They level him with a weak version of a glare, though Sans doesn’t see any heat behind it -- just a persistent confusion pinned directly at him at all times. He doesn’t mean to make them feel like an invalid, but he’s already done sharing his own energy with his guest. He can only be so accommodating and not feel odd about it.

After a moment where they level him with their best unfocused look, their teeth part the slightest bit, enough for Sans’s spoon to sneak in with another helping of yam and roasted squash. Every spoonful is laborious to get into them, and every time it takes ages for them to absorb what little food is given to them.

This time, the energy slowly converts in their mouth over the course of two minutes. Two minutes of Sans internally worrying, fretting, carefully schooling his expression so he doesn’t offend them. His brow is creased, his back arched painfully as he leans forward to hold them steady.

There are remnants of yam when he pulls the spoon away, but it’s better than nothing. The more they eat, the more they can absorb, and the more they absorb, the more energy they’ll have to heal.

They’re making progress, though. Slow, achingly slow progress.

It’s shortly before noon, and Sans has yet to shower, his back feels like he’s been kicked down the stairs, and he’s a little tired. He still wears his grin, offering it whenever his guest’s large eye lingers on him.

He wonders if they think he’s a threat. They still haven’t said a word. Sans is starting to think that they just might not be able to talk, or never have. So far, the only communication they’ve had together is the Fell monster’s slightly agitated huffs when Sans ventures too far, or the soft, muted grunts when Sans moves them.

Though no thought incurred it, Sans doesn’t believe that they’re faking it. No one would be able to pretend the amount of weakness they show, nor the wan paleness of their bones. He knows that he isn’t being taken advantage of either, not that he’s worried about that. He knows some things just happen out of desperation.

Sans takes a break from feeding them and looks to the remainder of their bowl. They’ve eaten almost a quarter of it, and he’s eaten maybe half. Between the two of them, the saucepan still has some leftovers. Idly, he wonders if making a mash out of it would be easier for his guest to eat instead of separate pieces, but by the looks of things, they’re ready for a nap.

Drowsing in place, they don’t stir when Sans gets up to put the food away. He grabs a glass and fills it from the tap, fresh, cool water filled partway. He sidles next to the chair they’re slumped on, sets the glass on the counter next to them, then carefully brings them up to a sitting position.

Though they’re much better than before, the Fell monster is still weak. They lean heavily against Sans, using his body for something solid to prop themself up. Apparently, they trust Sans enough not to let them drop, so Sans keeps them pressed against his side with an arm around their shoulders, and brings the glass of water close to their face.

“Can you drink?” he asks quietly. Again, he doesn’t expect a reply, but they must understand him well enough.

Their mouth parts open a sliver when Sans brings the rim of the glass to their teeth and slowly tilts it forward. It’s messy as the water trickles past their teeth, but some manages to get inside. Sans sees a faint shimmer of their magic warm up with the introduction of fresh clear water as it converts it.

Carefully, their jaw clicks as they give a tentative swallow.

“That’s it,” Sans says, unable to keep the excitement from his voice. His eyes feel unnaturally bright. “A little more, bud. You’re doin’ good. Then you can lie down.”

The process takes a little longer than a cup of water should take to drink, but Sans finds that he doesn’t mind. Nor does he especially mind the weight of the monster pressed into his side like an overgrown cat, the grateful sighs they make after each sip, nor the groggy, sleepy way they drowse. They’re either too tired to care, or they trust him that much already.

Feels kind of nice to be appreciated, Sans observes with a gentle grin.

He returns the emptied glass back to the counter. Instead of leaving them in the chair, where he’s sure his back has planned mutinies against him in the past, Sans gathers them up and pulls them into his arms so he can carry the Fell monster back to the guest room. An idle thought passes through his head when Sans feels their breaths warm on his neck, prickling shivers trickling down his spine at the reminder of the warning bite they gave him.

That was easy enough to avoid; don’t be a threat and they won’t bite.

Hopefully.

Sans knows that eventually they’re going to need a bath. So does he, and before his brother gets home if he doesn’t want to get an earful. These thoughts pass through his head as Sans sits on the edge of the mattress with the Fell monster in his arms, pivoting his body so he can lay them down. His body already aches from the amount of work he’s done and what he’s gotta do for the day.

Three things he absolutely must do; feed Brinley, check up on the chickens, and have a bath. The garlic has already been sown, and…

Shoot, he forgot about the voice message again.

Belatedly, Sans realises that he hasn’t lowered the Fell monster into the sheets as he’d intended to. They’re no longer drowsing, instead peacefully at rest in his arms. All at once, Sans feels a little trapped, but also overwhelmed by the simple fact that his guest has fallen asleep in his arms.

As slowly as time creeping by, Sans carefully lowers them to the bed, making sure to cup the back of their skull for support. He lays them down amongst the warm covers, moving their limbs so that they’re more or less comfortable, and pulls up the heavy comforter. Carefully, he tucks the blanket around their shoulders, gently tilting their head so they won’t develop a crick in their neck, and gives a soft pat to their chest.

“I’ll be in the next room. Don’t fret, alright?” he murmurs quietly. Sans hopes that they hear him, or perhaps that they’re so deep asleep that they’ll rest for most of the time he has to be away from them. “Be good, buddy.”

He waits for awhile longer, just in case they decide to peek an eye open or to move when he’s not looking. Sans lingers like a shadow, then carefully eases off the side of the mattress. They don’t even stir, so soundly asleep that it’s soothing to watch.

Sans pries himself away. If he stays for any longer, he’s not going to be able to get the bare minimum done today, which will only make Papyrus worry when he gets back. It’s all and well when he’s trusted when Sans says that he’s ok, but if the usual work hasn’t been done, Papyrus will know he’s lying.

And he’s kicked that habit, for the most part.

Sans takes the phone off the receiver and unwinds the cord so it’s not as twisted, letting the last message replay. 

“Hello, brother. It’s me, I… don’t know if I’m doing the right thing here-”

He skips ahead until it doesn’t sound familiar anymore, then rewinds the message back a little.

“Don’t tear yourself up over this… please?” There’s a long silence that Sans doesn’t remember listening to; perhaps it was when he noticed his guest was awake. He almost thinks that Papyrus forgot to hang up the call when Papyrus suddenly says, very quietly, “Well… you’re allowed to call even if you don’t need me there. Just check in with me if you miss my calls. You know. Not that I worry, but-”

Papyrus sighs. Sans’s soul squeezes just a little as the recording of his breath makes the audio fizz out.

“Who am I kidding. Of course I worry now. I saw the way your heart sank when Abby couldn’t heal that person…”

Involuntarily, Sans flinches and casts a guilty look the guest room’s way.

“It’s alright. Just… call, ok?”

~

Sans decides not to call. Not right away. He finds himself prodding more wood into the stove, feeding the hungry little fire inside so the house stays warm while he’s out. Then he slips on his gumboots, stumbles out of the back door, and toddles out to the chicken coop around the side of the house.

They’re all ok. They make little purring clucks at him and cock their heads this way and that when he approaches the linked fence door, carrying a bucket of seed and grit. A couple hens flutter closer when they realise it’s time for fresh feed and when they hear Sans start to hum.

“Sorry I’ve been away,” he says, a distraction for the guilt he feels coiling in the pit of his soul. “Got a hungry one that, uh… dropped by.”

He gets a few blank stares from the ones that start to peck around his feet, expecting seeds to drop, but the answer is lonely silence.

“Sorry,” he says again. “Sorry, girls. I’ll bring out some brussels sprouts and beets or something the next time I’m out here.”

They’ve only got three hens to the coop and a separate enclosure for their rooster, who struts around like he owns the place like a jock -- such is his namesake. Once Sans accounts for them all, he sets about cleaning out the hulls of seed from their feeding bin and layering it up. Then he carefully creaks open the panel in the top to peak inside.

“Hey, Label,” he gently calls into the coop. “You hoggin’ the nest box again?”

He’s peered back by his favourite hen, a girl that’s only a couple years old that’s tawny like toffee and has a good temperment. He grins down at her when she notices that there’s fresh seed and deserts her post with a waffling chuckle, revealing two creamy, light brown eggs. Once Label’s out of eyesight, he reaches down to confiscate them and lays them into the bucket along with a kerchief to keep them safe.

He finds two other ones on the other side laid by his older hens; two barred rock chickens named Croquette, which Papyrus named, and the other Spudtato, which Sans named. He collects the creamy brown eggs and sets them into his bucket, and goes around the enclosure again to clean and spruce it up a bit with fresh bedding. Occasionally, the girls pluck at his clothes for attention, but time goes by uneventfully.

Next up is Brinley. She gives her usual huff when he wanders in, a little sore and achy. It’s the good kind of achy, something he’ll know will get soaked out in his bath, but his mind is preoccupied. She nibbles at his collar as he cleans her pen, refreshes her water, and dumps out plenty of feed and her promised treats.

Sans finds himself standing inside of her pen, not really knowing what to do with himself or how to process what he feels.

“They woke up.”

It feels weird to say it out loud. Brinley pays him no mind, fully taken with her food. Reaching up, Sans gingerly tests the marks on his collar, feeling the slight grooves where the Fell monster bit down.

It happened. It’s very real. They woke up, moved, ate, drank,  _ slept. _ They’re awake and not dying.

He laughs to himself, allowing himself to feel as it all crashes down on him. The startling hope, the relief, the inner horror that Sans refused to touch that he’d have to deal with a stranger’s dust in his home. It all feels like too much.

Bruskly, he shoves the back of his hand over his eyes. His body trembles, under pressure and it all leaking out. This doesn’t feel like himself.

He huffs once. He sounds strangled, so he tries to hold it back. Curious, Brinley bumps him with her nose, warm and wet, and he sobs. Relief courses through him like lightning and the tears just feel unnecessary. Sans sniffs harshly, and rubs his cheek into his elbow to wipe his face, giving the old muskox a pat on the neck when she tries to tug at his clothes again.

“They’re ok,” he huffs after a moment. His voice is warbly and shaky, but he smiles just the same. “They’re gonna be ok, baby. I’ll bring ‘em when they can walk. Give you pets-” He stops with a sharp sniff, willing himself to stop the tears. “-Lots of pets. You’re a good girl for comforting me, thank you.”

Brinley bumps her head into him again, causing Sans to stumble, but he doesn’t fall. He holds onto her and pats her head, stroking the hairy mess that is her face. She doesn’t mind this once in awhile. She usually will tell him when she’s had enough.

Thankfully, he’s not pushed away. He wipes the tears that fell onto her neck with a grimace and a laugh, brushing out her scraggly hair with his fingers.

“Thanks, ol’ baby,” he mumbles. “I’m gonna open the door for you. It’s a little better today. You come in if it gets windy, ok?”

She huffs and butts him again, a little harder this time.

Sans scratches the back of his neck as he leads her out, dislodging some shed hair and a few specks of hay. She follows close to him like she doesn’t want him out of her sight, but once Sans unlocks the overhand latch and pushes the door open, she barrels out into the gated plot for her.

He feels better for the tension released, even if he’s emotionally run dry. He wipes over his face a few more times to ensure that any traces of tears are gone, then he slowly makes his way back to the house to give his brother a ring.


	8. Chapter 8

He shouldn’t feel guilty for taking the time to process the whole situation, but some of his older habits die hard.

Sans listens to the predictable two rings before his other line answers, his soul high in his chest. When his brother greets him, Papyrus sounds bright and cheery but at the same time, a little concerned.

“Hey, broski,” Sans says easily, though his expression betrays how anxious he feels. It’s a good thing Papyrus isn’t here to see it; he’d latch on and hug him tight if so, and any resolve Sans garnered would just break down again. “Got some news.”

Papyrus makes a sound as though he was just about to say something and thought otherwise.

Sans looks down the hall in case the Fell monster somehow got up to sneak away, but he sees the humps of their legs swaddled in blankets from the open door. Absently, Sans wanders around the kitchen.

“They woke up.”

If Papyrus was able to project his positivity through time and space, Sans would feel it smack him upside the head. He practically winces but grins a little more easily when he hears his brother hoot with excitement, the reception going fuzzy before Sans can hear him again.

He laughs. Papyrus is trying very hard not to squeal, though Sans can clearly hear it in his voice.

“OH MY GOD!!”

“Heh, yeah. Seems that-” _magic sharing_ “-they were really hungry… and I managed to get some food into them.”

“Oh my, that’s amazing news,” Papyrus breathes. Sans detects the relief emanating from his tone and relaxes a little. “What happened to them? Do you know? Have they told you? Why hungry?”

Sans’s gaze darts down the hall again. “They haven’t said a word yet. They’ve only been awake for a tiny bit. All’s I can tell is that they’ve been hungry for a long stint.” Idly, he starts to wrap the cord around his finger. “Sorry ‘bout the long wait between calls, by the way.”

“It’s fine,” Papyrus says dismissively, and Sans begins to wander around again. He crooks the phone between his shoulder and skull and feeds another log into the stove, then goes to clean the eggs he collected. “Are _you_ fine?”

No.

Sans gives his best impression of one of Papyrus’s weary sighs. “I need a long soak, t’be honest.”

“You sound tired. Did you take a nap yet?”

“No,” Sans says truthfully. His mind goes back to when the Fell monster drew magic from him, entirely separate from the converted food. His soul gives an uneasy twinge at the reminder. “Been a couple days. I got most of the garlic planted. The girls say hi.”

“The boy says hi back,” Papyrus says fondly with a quiet snicker. “You think we need anything extra now that we have another mouth to feed?”

Sans considers it, carefully rubbing away the dirt from the egg in the shallow bowl. He stays quiet for a little while longer, so Papyrus gives him an audible nudge.

“Maybe some more flour,” Sans concedes quietly. “Some salve, just in case. Extra clothes. They’re a bit smaller than me.”

“I’ll see what I can find. Do you think I should bring Abby by again? She’d be happy to see them alive and not Fallen!!”

Sans gives a shrug and moves the now cleaned eggs to a dry cloth on the counter to rest. “I don’t think she c’n do much for ‘em for the moment, but you can let ‘er know they’re gonna be ok. All I see is them needin’ a bit more food a--oh, maybe get some more bacon.”

“I will get more bacon, Sans.”

“Lard too,” Sans adds. “I wanna make biscuits.”

Papyrus sighs, but Sans can tell that it’s one of his good natured ones. He chuckles. “Suppose I’ll humour you. I’ll be back tomorrow, alright? You take care.”

“Thanks, Paps, you too. Love ya.”

~

After unwinding himself from the telephone cord, Sans dries the eggs and puts them away in the fridge, then fills a large stock pot with water with a few chopped shallots, garlic, sliced potatoes, and thick slices of ham. He adds shucked corn and chops them into segments along with some minced chillies and a diced radish. Then he puts it all on the stove over low heat to simmer, adding a dash of thyme and dried bay leaves for an earthy kick.

He makes his way to the front of the house, only a couple doors away from the guest room. When he peeks in and finds the Fell monster fast asleep, Sans quietly sneaks away to bathe.

Sinking into the hot water is bliss after so long that Sans’s bones tense up and relax all at once. He leans back in the small but deep tub, taking his time to gently scrub dirt and scuffs from his body until he feels a thousand times better. He breathes a grateful sigh as the hot water bakes through his bones, leaving him warmer than he’s felt in ages. The days may be hot, but the evenings are starting to settle into him like icicles.

A long hour trickles by. He relaxes for the first time in days, dozing in the hot tub until it starts to get chilly. His body no longer wants to move, but he forces his hand up to trace along the short half-inch marks in his collarbone. They twinge with the heat, dulling to a gentle throb.

They must’ve been so scared, he thinks. Sans reflects back to the helpless, hopeless, crushing failure that he’d felt when he first started tending to the Fell monster. He huddles under the water, balled up as small as he can.

It feels like there’s something else there. Sans can’t quite put his finger on it. Eventually, he decides it’s best not to prod at until they’re ready to talk.

Which he realises might take some time. Starvation is nothing to brush off, rendering a monster to their most base instincts. Low magic, economised movement, even speaking might be difficult. His guest has a long road of recovery ahead of them.

He sighs into the tub water, a shiver crawling up his spine. It’s getting cold. He spent too long in the bath.

Welp, it’s probably better that he got out to check on them anyway.

It takes awhile for Sans to eventually leave the safe, comfortable confines of the bath water and into the cruel and chilly world. He hastens to his room, his bed forgotten and upturned from when he’d last been in its warm embrace.

He shuffles around in his towel for something clean to wear and pats off as he goes, finally settling on a blue and green tartan flannel (to match the bottoms his guest wears), and an old pair of grey sweatpants with looping purple daisies printed all over them. He completes the ensemble by slipping on some cushy yellow socks, then wanders out to check on the Fell monster.

When he slips into their room, Sans is surprised to see them awake. They’re more or less there, following his movements with their glowing eye light like a seafaring feline. It’s still a little dim, making them look eerily like a haunted doll more than anything else. Sans tries not to look like a stick just got rammed up his spine, doors and windows slammed up in his psyche so hard and so fast that it’s nearly a flinch.

“Heya,” he says softly as he approaches. They just watch, waiting, their eye light settling first on his face, then down to his chest, then to his hands stuffed into balls in his pockets. “You keepin’ warm? Need something to munch on?”

The reaction is small, but it’s there. At the promise of food, a flicker of interest lingers in their gaze for a moment. Their movement is small, but it’s distinct. Deliberate.

They’re at least trying to communicate. Not as much as in words, but Sans reads them loud and clear. He’s always been able to tell the natural way of things, to feel the tall grass sigh against his hands as he passes or to detect the slow creep of frost in from the north on his breath.

“Stew’s on,” he offers, finding an easy grin to wear. “I’ll grab somethin’ in the meantime. You stay right there.”

Which is kind of a dumb thing to tell them, and Sans only realises what he said when he’s out in the hall. He flinches and decides not to linger on it, instead going to the pantry. There are a few boxes of crackers to choose from until the stew is ready.

It fills the entire house with its scent, and as Sans passes the stove, he has to sneak a taste. Then, after some consideration, he adds a little bit of salt and ladles some into a small bowl to cool. It’s what Papyrus calls a “hobo helping”, the choice pieces of meat, veggies and a bit of broth, since Sans often can’t wait until it’s done cooking to start eating.

He preps the pieces but cuts them up smaller, hoping his guest isn’t too picky. Sans’s mind flits here and there now that they’re awake -- wondering how they feel, if they find it warm enough, if they can stand a bath…

Well, maybe not a full-on bath as he’s just had, but Sans knows it’s gotta be uncomfortable to have dried mud caked between their joints. If he can get a safe temperature going to wash them, he can use a cloth. Even the thought seems risky.

They’re waiting for Sans when he returns, their eye light a mess between terracotta and blood red. Sans ignores the slight tug he feels towards him, like their magic is alive in the room itself instead of just their body. He thinks of the slots in his collarbone, the draw on his soul. It’s uncharacteristic of him to be paranoid, but, well, here he is.

There’s no expected surge of magic when Sans inches closer. It peters out instead, blunt and dull like the flat of a hammer when he places the small bowl of aromatic stew on the nightstand. Maybe, he thinks, they recognise him.

Sans’s gaze passes over the fresh chip in their skull, but he doesn’t linger on it so he moves to carefully pull them upright. He piles up pillows behind the Fell monster, propping them on each side. They don’t have the strength to sit without any help, which Sans is fine to supply.

“My brother’s comin’ home tomorrow,” Sans tells them, keeping his voice even. “He puts on a bit of a prickly attitude, but he’s as soft as a kitten, really.”

The haze in their eye socket goes dim again, like the Fell monster can’t quite keep awake; or perhaps it’s because they tried to force themself to move. Sans gives them a quick once-over and keeps a hand on their chest as he takes the bowl of steaming stew up to cool with his breath.

“Careful now. Take it easy. I’ve gotcha.”

They seem to understand. At least, they don’t argue. Sans swirls the stew around, the ham pieces tender and glistening in the broth. He wonders if he’ll need to give them a magic boost in order to get them to eat again. Hopeful, he sets the bowl on the nightstand to wait and carefully inspects them.

The look he receives is world-weary, perplexed. An idle thought comes to Sans when he assesses it; maybe they’re confused as to why he’s helping them. They’re strangers. Maybe it’s not a normal occurrence underground?

He thinks back to the tidbits of information he’d put aside in his head over the years. Fell monsters have LV -- this one is no different, but they’re only at LV 3. Not enough to blame it on an accident or two, but enough to know they’d done so intentionally.

Sans doesn’t judge them for it. He doesn’t do that anymore. Circumstances from all walks of life lead many people down different paths, but he can’t exactly ignore it.

Another piece of information: feral, almost society-less monsters hidden underground, forced to hunt and consume their own kind. Sans has never had to deal with that kind of mentality. He’s never fathomed it. Food has always been plentiful, and even in the few seasons that it’s scarce, one could always forage for food. The land is bountiful. Someone always has something for trade -- and when they don’t, they give from the goodness of their hearts.

Their injuries look old and gnarled, like the result of too little magic that made natural healing unfocused or clumsy. They look, in a word, _weak._ But Sans knows not to let his guard down after the first jump. He hopes it’ll be the last.

They give a soft huff as though agitated. It seems that they can’t form any words, but at least they’re trying to communicate.

“You’re under no threat here,” Sans murmurs quietly. “Just gotta wait a few minutes for this to cool down. Sorry, maybe I should’ve brought something cold, but I just default to stews and soups when it’s chilly out.”

Their eye droops. It’s a little fascinating to look at. Neither Sans nor his brother’s eye lights bleed out quite so much, forming a rich haze of colour like their new guest. Their other eye socket is devoid of light, but he can see a tiny pinpoint somewhere deep within their skull. Maybe, once they get their strength back, they’ll have another to utilise.

They’re staring back at him. Assessing the threat, probably. Sans offers them a gentle smile, a feeble _ping_ ricocheting off his soul like a glanced shoulder bump passing by. Somehow it misses, but it’s there. Perhaps they needed reassurance that only a check can supply.

> [* sans.  
>  here to help ya out ]

By bare degrees, magic fizzles behind that perplexed expression. Carefully, Sans keeps them upright and takes the spoon from the bowl and pierces a bit of potato.

“C’n I check back? Or will you take that for fightin’?” he asks softly. “Haven’t done it yet.”

Predictably, they don’t answer. Their stare is like brittle, scored glass; one push and they’ll break.

Sans takes that as a no. He gives them a reassuring smile. “That’s ok, bud. I’ll keep helpin’ you until you feel ok enough to introduce yourself.” He pauses to reconsider. “Well, even if ya don’t.”

They seem to ease with that, slight suspicion in the way their brow pinches. Their eye light drifts to the raised portion of food, and Sans delicately blows on it to help cool it down.

“I didn’t make it too spicy,” Sans admits, keeping his voice calm and relaxed. “Can’t have you gettin’ sick from too much too fast. Made the intent a little gentler too. If it’s too much, just tell me. I got some crackers too.”

They level him with something of a look. It’s not quite there, but it makes a warm smile touch Sans’s teeth. He leans in, careful to keep the bite small enough to easily absorb.

There’s a slight nudge against his hand from the Fell monster’s chest. It’s like they’re trying to lean forward to reach it faster than he moves, a hopeful flutter from behind Sans’s fingers. Sans tries to ignore the way that makes his soul squeeze tight, instead focusing on the way the Fell monster clumsily, slowly absorbs the portion.

No hint of a tongue. Even though Sans makes the effort to make things tasty, they default to absorption.

A shudder creeps through their body. Sans feels it wrapped behind his phalanges, magic coiled tight like a chilled snake. It threatens to snap, to disperse and break up into crumbs. It doesn’t, but it’s never been something that Sans is able to put words to. It’s like they don’t know how to eat this.

“C’mon, buddy,” he says, trying to keep the leaden feeling from sinking in his chest. “You gotta try.”

They make another attempt. Magic shivers around them, the absorbed bits of food wearily pulled past their mandible to drift down their chest cavity. It’s taking what precious little energy they have to eat even this much.

Sans sighs softly, but he doesn’t make them suffer through it. His face ghosts with a flush of soft seafoam teal, blooming with warmth as he shoves a bite of ham and potato into his mouth.

It’s hard to look at them after that, knowing what he intends to do. They look at him, a small tremor fluttering just a bit under Sans’s hand.

Sans flushes a bit more, embarrassed, and pockets the energy in his mouth to mutter quietly, “I c’n help ya. This’s the only way I know how.” There’s another slight nudge against his hand, like the soft whisper of fresh snow. It’s a little too cool for his liking. “I can give you a kickstart again, if that’ll help.”

They’re staring at his teeth, as focused as that hazy eye light can be. There’s no clear definition of where it ends, just bled out of the lines so much it’s like paint touching pooled water on a sheet of paper. It just gradually sinks back into their socket.

Sans feels their magic again, a gentle, eager press against his hand. It’s silent permission, a small favour exchanged for food when they’re starving. When Sans leans forward and cups their face to hold them steady, they make a soft sound low in their throat. Teeth against teeth, Sans pushes the magic into them instead of having them take it.

The sensation feels a bit too warm, although Sans is sure due to the quake of embarrassment nestled deep in his chest. He doesn’t make eye contact when he parts from them, nor does he linger on their shivering breaths. He takes a bit more of the potato, some stray kernels of corn, and leans in again.

It’s shakier this time. The Fell monster’s breath staggers, like they just realised that Sans is trying to feed them poison. Like they’re shocked in place, they go still instead of the familiar, desperate, soulful lunge. Suddenly unsure of himself, Sans parts from them, but he leaves a hand on their shoulder.

Peculiar. Why not that time? Sans studies their face, their eye light drifting down to the bowl of food past Sans’s hip. Sans has a feeling this goes beyond being a picky eater. It actually seems like they can’t absorb most of what he offers..?

Confused, Sans considers it. He thinks about the foods that were eagerly taken and those that made the Fell monster weakened.

He looks at the bowl. Potatoes, corn, ham, and garlic.

They had absorbed the cheese themself. The bread had live culture in it. He made the mushroom soup with beef bone broth.

He doesn’t know what he’s doing. Sans grabs a cube of ham from the bowl with his fingers, soft and tender, and brings it up to their mouth. Their eye light stays on him, unblinking, like they’re trying to read his intentions.

“You prefer this, don’t ya?” Sans says softly, kind of ashamed that he hadn’t figured it out sooner. It makes sense now when they drew in deep from his magic; it had been the only suitable thing to consume that they’d been offered since being found. “I understand now, buddy. Go on.”

Barely, they open their mouth to welcome the small piece of ham. Again, Sans sees the razor-sharp slats of their teeth, his collarbone prickling at the reminder.

After the failure of the potatoes, the yams and the bread, the way the Fell monster lights up is like a breath of fresh air after hours of being deprived of oxygen. Magic replenishes them by tiny trickles, the rust of their colours deepening the barest shade as it courses through them. It’s still a little shaky, but their eye light remains locked on him.

Sans can take a hint. It’s not that he doesn’t trust them, but they’ve already bitten him once. He spears the next portion of ham onto the fork and blows on it for good measure, just in case it’s too hot. Their chest trembles slightly, as though attempting not to lunge at him.

“It’s alright, buddy,” Sans murmurs. A low rich note sighs out of them, almost pained. It almost sounds like the full-on sparklers noise that happens when Sans used to wait too long to eat. His soul gives a sympathetic twist. “There’s plenty now, here ya go.”

When he’s sure that the forkful is cool enough, he feeds it to them. All the while, the fizz of pop candy, the subtle hiss of a burning fuse rings through the air.

They’re hungry, so he feeds them.

“It’s ok,” Sans assures them sadly. His eyes feel hot and prickly, but he doesn’t give in no matter how much those hidden tears want to fall. “We got enough. It’s ok.”


	9. Chapter 9

The Fell monster doesn’t eat as much as Sans hopes. In fact, after around the eighth bite or so, they seem too out of breath to manage another, though they certainly try. They make another subvocal noise of protest, even go as far to twitch their fingers. A small fear flashes in their eye light.

Sans has to be careful around them until he calms from the overflow of emotions. As though it’ll help, he shows them the empty bowl, the glare of the potatoes apparently not interesting enough. Gently, he offers them the bowl. They don’t make any indication that they don’t want it, but they’re pretty worn out. They just sit, slumped against the pile of pillows Sans stacked around them.

As cosy as the blankets are, they don’t look any warmer for it. In fact, when Sans makes contact with them, the Fell monster’s bones are slightly chilled, just a bare warmth when he touches closer to their joints.

“I’m gonna get a washcloth,” he offers softly, taking notice of the plaintive look the Fell monster gives the bowl in his hand. Even though it’s mostly empty, he sets it in their lap amongst the blanket folds. He’ll get it later.

When he’s sure that they won’t slip out of bed in the five minutes he’s gone, Sans takes a deep breath down the hall like he’s been strung too tight. His chest feels overfull, his soul beating hard.  _ They’re alive. _

He bee-lines to the linen closet to gather up some things. Once he locates a basin, washcloths and some mild soap, Sans brings it all to the kitchen to run some warm water. After a moment, he considers it, dipping one of his fingers into the water to gauge. He adds a bit more cooler water, just to make sure he won’t injure his guest.

They’re still upright when he returns. In fact, there’s a stranger kind of quiet in the room when Sans sneaks up, not meaning to. It appears that the food has done its job, giving them a bit more clarity, a touch more focus. When he moves just out of their periphery, the Fell monster even manages to turn their head, just a bit.

Sans gives them a shy grin.

“Doin’ ok?” he asks conversationally, the small basin of water, soap and cloths in his hands. “You’re a bit scruffy from your dirt nap.”

Their eye light drops from his face down to the basin in his arms, contemplative. Ah, so they do understand.

As though it’ll help to soothe the weighty silence, Sans scratches the back of his leg with his foot and steps further into the room. Though they’re in the same position that he had left them in, the Fell monster seems tense.

“I’m not gonna hurt ya,” Sans assures them. “Just gonna wipe away the mud. Is that ok?”

Mud. Wipe. Their eye light slides down in a jagged motion to their hands curled loosely in their lap, craggly, dirt-stained things that have likely hardly ever been washed. They look back to him, silent.

Sans tries to grin a little more, swallowing down his nerves. “At least your hands, then.”

They look down to their hands again, but their gaze doesn’t return to Sans’s face. The tip of one of their fingers twitches. They seem almost stunned at the lack of movement.

Or then again, maybe they’re surprised that they can move at all?

Sans doesn’t test that line of thinking. He shuffles back to his place next to them and sets the basin onto the nightstand, dipping an end of one of the cloths to the water to let it soak, then unbuttons his sleeves at the wrists and rolls them up.

Like they don’t think he’s watching, the Fell monster follows his movements with their large eye light. Sans makes sure to move slowly as not to spook them, then lathers a bit of the soap in with the wetted cloth. After a moment of consideration, he brings one of his wetted fingers to their ulna and carefully touches them.

They look down, almost curious. It doesn’t appear that it hurts them at all, so Sans carefully takes their left hand in his own. Still no sign of pain, just as before. That’s good, Sans thinks. He pushes away the urge to laugh with relief and squeezes out the excess water with his other hand.

“This’ll have to do until you c’n have a proper soak,” he murmurs. He wishes his brother was here with him, but some things just can’t be helped. Their unbreaking stare makes his collarbone tingle despite how much Sans tries to ignore it. He drags the lukewarm water up their wrist with the cloth, sloughing away bits of dirt and grass that he had missed before. “You feelin’ better?”

A dumb question, but it’s his effort to get them to talk. He expects some kind of shrug or a soft hum, not silence. It feels disheartening in an entirely different way.

“That’s ok,” Sans mumbles quietly as he suds up their hand. The remaining dirt that he didn’t get before is slowly lifted away, revealing soft, nicked bone underneath. It’s not a warm cream like his own is, sickly grey and a little stained with something redder than clay. Sans tries not to let his imagination run away without him. “I c’n talk enough for both of us.”

He massages the soap into their fingers, feeling the rough, pebbly texture as he works. They give a soft sigh, like they’d been holding it for awhile. Sans briefly looks up and sends them a genuine smile.

“That feels better, don’t it,” he offers. The corner of their mouth twitches slightly, but the Fell monster still appears perplexed. Shyly, Sans looks back to their soapy hands. “You lemme know if you wanna sleep, and I c’n help you lie down, no worries.”

They don’t reply. Sans has a feeling that a lot of his nattering is gonna be one-sided. It’s a little harder to keep his smile.

“M’glad you’re ok,” he admits quietly. “Gave me a scare.”

Their finger twitches again. This time, Sans feels it. He looks up, seeing the ghost of confusion flee before he can even register it upon their face. He doesn’t want to make them uncomfortable, so he mumbles good-naturedly, “Sorry. Like to talk to myself.”

He doesn’t force himself to talk for any more than he has to. In fact, despite the small bursts of energy and the way they try to move their fingers, by the time Sans starts their other hand, they’re already dozing again. Sans catches the droplets as he moves the washcloth up to their chest, resulting in a shuddering sigh that makes Sans pause.

“S’alright,” he murmurs. “Just a bit chilly out. This won’t take long, ok?”

Since there’s no protest, Sans continues to carefully scrub the filthier areas of the Fell monster’s ribs, even up towards their skull. There’s a few areas where it’s evident that they’ve been laying in the dirt for awhile, soft pits and spackles where the mud dried to the bone.

Taking pity on them, Sans carefully, tenderly wipes it away. As though suddenly unsure of their proximity, the Fell monster averts their gaze, their eye light drifting towards the window near the bed as Sans works.

Sans doesn’t say so, but it reminds him of a time or two when he’d been mudlogged their first few years alone at the farm. He remembers having to scrub away the clay-like dirt from his feet when he lost his boots in the muck, and having to really scrub to get the pores clean.

His guest has no such luxury until they’re a little better.

Abandoning that thought, Sans makes sure to pat them dry when he’s done. When he looks over, the contents of the basin is muddy and deep orange with clay and dirt.

He considers the fresh chip from the old injury in their head at the end, then looks to the floor as though he might find the piece. He doesn’t remember if they had already been missing the piece when he had found them, but it never hurts to check. The floor is more or less clean; a few dust bunnies hide out in the corners but all in all, no signs of any stray bone fragments.

Still, he can’t help but reach out to the top of their skull. He had avoided it before, more concerned with washing away the mud and grit than to chance making them uncomfortable.

The injury looks awful, something that makes an echo throb in the same place in his own head. Carefully, Sans runs his fingertips over the light bruise on their temple from where their skulls collided.

Their eyes drift open, slow and cautious. A clumsy check glances off Sans’s soul again. Sans stills, and after a moment, they sigh out when the same information comes back. It’s low and soft, weary from working so hard.

“You’re alright,” Sans says gently. “Just takin’ a peek?” After a moment of consideration, he eyes them. He’s wary if it’s too soon, if their check had been customary in their own right. Well, what better way but to ask? “Is it ok if I do the same?”

He’s not sure if it’s meant to be anything, but there’s a slight nudge against his fingers. If he hadn’t been touching them, Sans wouldn’t have been able to recognise it as the bare incline of a nod.

Consent. Ok. That’s good.

As gentle as can be, Sans checks them. What comes back isn’t really much of a surprise, but the pulse of magic is like a shot of reciprocal adrenaline mixed in a cocktail of fear and sudden, aimless aggression. For a moment, Sans freezes, prepared for that burst to turn into another tackle, but they don’t budge.

Then, like bubbles coming up from a still pond, a scrambled number with no discernable value flutters out of view along with a name that Sans and a lot of other people share.

That, and…

> [* here. ]

Well, they’re not wrong. They are  _ here _ in a sense that they’re alive. The check response feels more like incredulity, as if they’re in a state of shock. Sans should have guessed it -- the emotional remnants after he brought them back to the house had been  _ staggering. _

Or maybe, as he’d suspected, they did not think that they’d wake up again.

He doesn’t address it. Not now. They’re in a fragile state; mentally, they’re probably still going over what had happened to them on repeat. Sans can kind of see it in the haunted expression they wear. His teeth rictus, Sans offers them a smile to soothe the tension away.

“When you’re well enough to stand warmer temps, I’ll give you a better wash,” he offers quietly. Absently, he attempts to heal the reddish bruise, but the magic he pours into the wound glides off like water on an oiled pan. He should’ve expected that, given the healer’s efforts. They watch him through half-lidded eyes as he moves them down from their propped-up position, careful to adjust where their arms lie so they’re comfortable. “Right now, you focus on restin’ up.”

Like the spike of odd aggression never occurred, they finally drift off again, leaving Sans on his own in the silence of the room.

He gathers the bowl of leftovers from their lap and tucks them in, pulling the blanket over their bare shoulders and layering it so they stay warm. He’s not quite sure how well that’ll fare -- his grandfather had a difficult time managing his own temperature, so the brothers ended up curled against his side in the cold months like a couple of overgrown bony cats.

Sans gives pause. He’s not sure how that’ll end up if he crawls in to share his body heat. He knows that it’s likely that they’ll need help, and that bed warmers are a gamble he’s not willing to take, but he’s still wary of being bitten again.

Perhaps when they’re a little calmer. Or if Papyrus says something about it. Sans still feels abashed about how he’s gonna tell his brother that he shared magic with their dying guest

Well, no longer dying now.

He leaves with the basin and bowl of leftovers to dispose of. The stew is still simmering away on the stove, but the fire has lowered down to embers with his neglect. Carefully, he feeds the fire inside with a few logs of wood from the stack near the wall and plates up a meal for himself, eating in contemplative silence.

He’s relieved that Papyrus will be home tomorrow. He needs help now with the Fell monster to take care of, and Papyrus is diligent in getting all the chores done before nightfall. As it stands, Sans is running on even less sleep than what he’s used to. He’s weary, right down to his bones.

The stew helps. He makes a point to eat more of the vegetables, to save the meat for his guest. He goes as far to cut some more up into an almost mince-like consistency, chopping it up fine with a fried egg and some grated cheese. When he’s done cleaning up a bit of the dishes, he takes the cooled bowl of ham, egg, and cheese back to the guest room to rest by their jaw.

At least, he thinks, they look peaceful while asleep. Not like that first evening when they looked so lost and drained. He barely feels the sharp jab of emotions they’d bled out as before. It’s a distant shimmer in the background like the hum of cicadas in the fields.

“There’s a midnight snack for you if you wake up,” Sans tells them softly. For a moment, he just watches their chest rise and fall in a slow rhythm.  _ They’re breathing. _

Quiet as the grave, Sans leaves the room, turning the lamp down low so it only casts a small glow in the corner by the door.

He decides to do some of the things he’s been meaning to do -- give Brinley her heater, fresh straw bedding, and feed. He’s less focused and a lot more sleepy than before and has a short nap. It manages not to eat up the rest of his daylight, but he toddles his way up to the house, rubbing at an eye.

The kitchen is nice and toasty when he returns, the stew smelling absolutely heavenly. He ladles himself a second helping after checking in on the Fell monster, finding them fast asleep. After eating it quickly, he calls Papyrus after a thought.

“Heya,” he starts as nonchalantly as he can. “Beef bones too.”

Sans can almost see Papyrus’s grimace. “Bones??”

“Yeah,” Sans mumbles. “They’re low on essentials and it’s been easiest for them to absorb proteins, so we’ll keep ‘em to that. Broth’ll be easy to have ‘em drink than me, uh-” He stops, realising that he hasn’t revealed to his brother just how he was getting them to eat. “-feeding them.”

Smooth.

Papyrus blessedly misses his fluster or just doesn’t pay it any mind. “I will secure some, then. Anything else?”

Sans’s eyes rake the kitchen walls in search of anything they’re missing. He goes over the ingredients needed for broth in his head, then lists off a couple of things; “Celeriac and some carrots, since we’re running low. We’re good on taters an’ rice. If you can barter some more cheese, that’d be helpful too.”

His brother replies in the affirmative. They chat about pleasantries in the town for a good thirty minutes or so, until Papyrus has to go.

Sans scratches the bruise on his temple and sighs after hanging up the receiver. His mind is a little less focused before, so it takes him a few aborted attempts to remember what he was doing before he finally remembers to take the stew off the stove so it can cool, and to gather up his guest’s clothes now that they’re dry. He doesn’t return them immediately -- they’re toasty-warm, which would still harm them if Sans draped their jacket over them.

He checks on them again, holding the worn denim jacket to his chest as he peers around the door jamb. They’re still sleeping, comfortable as one can be.

He’s glad.


	10. Chapter 10

Sans winds up spending the evening in the Fell monster’s room. It seems the only way Sans can get himself to relax is when he watches over them, as though it alleviates his nerves that they just might need him and he’ll be close by. He passes the time in his favourite chair with a catalogue, reading until he eventually falls asleep.

Unfortunately, morning comes too soon. Its sunshine wriggles in through the nearby frosted window pane to flicker onto Sans’s face. Begrudging his warm dreams of minced pies and hearty soups, Sans rubs at his eye and carefully straightens his back, his spine popping in protest.

Trepidatiously, Sans leans forward to see what food remains in the bowl. It’s half-gone, and he feels oddly proud of his guest. As he peers closer, there’s no rhyme nor reason as to what’s been eaten, just whatever happened to be closest. There’s a little half-moon serving of remaining ham, egg, and cheese in the bowl.

They’re undisturbed as he gets up, the gentle quiet of early morning too kind to wake them. Sans slowly eases out of the chair so it doesn’t creak, holding his lower back as he bends to drape their jacket on top of them. Since his body feels like it’s gonna creak like an old barn door, Sans goes to feed the stove fire again, hoping the warmth will soak through his weary bones to chase out some of the chill.

Then he goes back. It occurs to him that he’d just laid them down in the sheets, mud-covered and all, and that the linens will probably have to be changed before Papyrus pitches a fit. He’s not sure how well his brother’s normally good-natured nagging will play over with their overly cautious, suspicious disposition. In the end, Sans figures it’s better not to risk it.

Sans approaches them, calm and collected, and leans over the Fell monster to gather them into his arms. They stir with an inquisitive little grunt, but Sans doesn’t gamble enough time for them to find any part of his body to bite down on. He pivots and ignores the light spasm in his back, then carefully deposits them onto his vacant chair.

Apparently, his best isn’t good enough. Despite Sans’s efforts, they’re awake, a little drowsy from being handled with sleep thick in their eyes. Sans smiles down at them, as guilty as having disturbed a peacefully napping cat.

“It’s ok,” he tells them softly as he deposits the bowl into a secure fold of their blanket cocoon. “Go back to sleep.”

They don’t need any more convincing, apparently, since they do just that. Either that or they’re exhausted and don’t really care to watch as Sans struggles with the fitted sheet. He makes sure the dislodged dirt and mud doesn’t make its way onto the mattress, brushing away the crumbs.

By the end of it, Sans’s back aches more than it did before, but the bed is redone and outfitted with a few fleece blankets and a quilt that’s heavy and warm. He’s also dug out a shirt of his that’s a little too big. It’s all he can find for the moment, or at least until his brother comes home.

Before he bothers his resting guest, Sans lays out the long-sleeved shirt after unbuttoning it, making sure it’s laid out flat. Then he turns to them, finding them sound asleep. He hopes they trust him enough not to lash out.

Sans can’t help but feel bad as he slides their jacket off of them and the blankets they’re wadded up in too. Though they had no strength the night before, they almost seem to cringe from the cruel chill.

Yeah, that makes Sans feel like an ass alright. He carries them the short distance to lay them down onto the clean bed, lining up their body with the shirt and making sure that their feet slide under the fleece.

“Sorry ‘bout the cold,” he murmurs quietly when he sees them peek at him from one eye. He’s careful when he guides their hand through the first sleeve, tucking their sharp fingers under his palm so they don’t catch on the soft fabric. “This’ll be better ‘til I dig out the room heater. We don’t really mind the cold but, uh-” He doesn’t know where he’s going with this excuse. “It’s nice to be cosy when you don’t feel well, right?”

As always, they don’t reply. Sans easily pulls their hand through the end of the sleeve and adjusts the front panel around to cover their scarred chest, then starts to guide their other arm into the second sleeve. He’s not sure, but they feel a little warmer, even in the cool air.

“You feelin’ a bit better?” he asks conversationally. “I bet. Or, at least, I hope you are. Nothin’ like packin’ in some good food and havin’ a good, deep, long sleep, huh.”

Sans doesn’t mind the silence as he pulls their other hand through the remaining sleeve, taking care to move slowly so they don’t feel nervous. Their expression betrays how they must feel, though. They study him, watching as Sans sits down on the side of the mattress so he can start to do up the little buttons.

The tension is as easy as churning butter -- which means that no matter how much Sans tries to work through it, it only gets harder and harder to work through. On top of it all, he’s exhausted, his brain bogged down and slow to boot up, so he keeps fumbling with the button holes. He sighs a little in frustration.

The Fell monster’s single eye light brightens slightly, wide and blown out. It’s Sans’s only warning that something might happen, but whatever it is never comes. They just stare at him, wide-eyed and wary, like the frustration had been aimed at them.

“Sorry, it’s not you,” Sans apologises quickly. “I’m just tired,” he amends. Their agitation snaps him more awake though, easily enough. His fingers get a lot surer as he loops the buttons through down their chest, and Sans notes how shaky their breaths are.

“Easy, now. Your food’s here.” Sans stifles a yawn with his hand as he scoots over to grab the bowl and place it down for them to reach. “How’re you feelin’ this morning?” He gives them a gentle grin. “Better, I hope.”

He’s starting to sound like a broken record. That’s ok. Better than a record player that doesn’t speak. His grin slips just a little, and Sans covers it by yawning again.

“S’ok,” he adds to the silence of the room. “My brother’s comin’ home today. Remember what I told ya? Soft as a kitten, don’t mind his volume. He gets excitable around new people.”

The look they give him is almost plaintive. Bright corners in his memory load up as though to make sense of it all, but Sans gives his head a gentle shake to clear it.

He doesn’t do that anymore.

“I got a few chores to do around the house before he gets back, anyway,” Sans explains as he finishes off the row of buttons. Without thinking, he smooths down the shirt, eliciting a startled, shivering breath from the Fell monster. He supposes they weren’t anticipating that, but it doesn’t stop Sans from being embarrassed for it anyway.

“Sorry,” he’s quick to say, though he remains still. Their bright eye light is fixed on him, darting around as their focus lands on his face, his chest, his hands, and back to his eyes. Carefully, Sans raises his hands in a placating gesture, as though to show them that he doesn’t have anything. “Gonna put the blanket on, ok?”

He waits a few long seconds, just in case they have any objections. When there isn’t any, Sans starts with the warm fleece and pulls it up over the Fell monster’s legs, then up to their chest. Sans tests the weight of it all by slipping a hand under the blankets to make sure it’s not too heavy, then he pulls the quilt over them too.

“I’ll be inside, just in the hallway,” Sans explains once they’re all tucked in and cosy. He double-checks the seal on the window to make sure it isn’t leaking any cold air. “Can you make any sound? Just in case you need me?”

They stare at him, though the look’s not as intense as before. The slit in their iris isn’t as thin as before, but more bulbous like a cat ready to pounce. Sans tilts his head a little, then carefully sits on the side of the bed again.

He’s slow when he brings his hand up to measure the span of their forehead with his fingers. His hands are much, much warmer than they are, so much that they sigh out as though in gentle relief and close their eyes. They’re cool, and the bruise and fresh injury to the crack in their skull is worrying.

Seems like they don’t mind him too much, as long as Sans is slow and tends them with a careful hand. That’s alright. Sans is used to gentling skittish personalities.

“M’gonna go and find that room heater,” Sans murmurs to them, though they don’t open their eyes until he slowly removes his hand. The rust-red bruise at their temple looks like it throbs, but Sans hopes that it just looks bad because they’re malnourished. “Just down the hall,” he repeats with a vague point. “C’n you whistle?”

Their lidded eyes peer at him, almost as though  _ Sans _ is the confused one.

Sans slots his tongue behind his teeth so he can whistle low, a soft thing that sounds like a songbird. It peeps out in a short huff.

His guest exhales sharply, something in their gaze softening. It almost sounds like a breathless laugh.

Oh. That little bit of hope Sans has tucked away in his soul flares up again and he can’t help but broadly grin. “Yeah, like a little bird. You know the one, right?” He chirps again. “Try?”

It’s the first time they’ve attempted to do something consciously without the promise of food. First their teeth part and they lower their gaze to Sans’s mouth, a soft, fruitless gust of air shallowly pushed through the gap in their teeth. They try again. And again.

Sans gives them an encouraging grin anyway. “You’ll get it eventually, buddy,” he says with a soft laugh. As though to demonstrate again, he chirps, and the corner of the Fell monster’s teeth quirks slightly.

A very low, very brief whistle sounds out like a dying kettle.

“Oh,” Sans chuckles. “Oh, that’s fine. That’s ok, I’ll be able to hear ya from the hall,” he assures them. When they try again, this time a little more successful, Sans carefully pats their shoulder in congratulations. “Good job, bud.”

Admittedly, it’s more difficult to separate himself from the bed than Sans had originally thought. With that little interaction, the Fell monster proved to him that not only could they communicate, but that they understood him. Rumours of Fell monsters being lawless, savage creatures seemed to be unfounded and based on… well, prejudice, probably.

(Most likely.)

Sans heads out of the room with a slight wave over his shoulder. He’s a little envious -- he certainly feels like his old self in that he wants to sleep the day away, but it’ll be better with Papyrus here to help. He won’t have to fret by himself over their guest while also tending to the animals and what cleanup still needs to be done in the fields, as well as having to cook.

He starts to pull things out of the closet. It’s all very orderly, something Papyrus prides himself on ever since he’d pieced it all in there like a tetris puzzle. By that reasoning, it’s a lot of things compacted into one area, and a lot of it falls into Sans’s hands rather than him pulling them out easily. He’s lucky he got the wash basin and towels, but they were less packed in there than the half dozen trinkets, tools, pans, pots, cleaning supplies, and small appliances they rarely use.

Soon enough, Sans finds himself on the floor surrounded by it all. He picks through a box of old photos of him and Papyrus that he’d found towards the back. Then he unearths a larger box with the heater and manual, some neatly folded left socks, mending materials, and a sack of coals. Leave it to Papyrus to save things ‘just in case’.

He gets up with the heater and manual in hand, testing the weight of it, then goes back to the guest room. He hasn’t heard any soft whistles from the Fell monster yet, but they’re drowsy like they’ve been fighting sleep the entire time, waiting for him to return.

Sans gives them a gentle grin. “Hey, there.” He stoops over near the bed, feeling their gaze on the back of his neck as he fiddles with the outlet plug. “Found the heater. I think you’re in the safe zone as far as the lowest setting goes, but tell me if it’s too much.”

He claps his hands on his pyjamas as he straightens, and looks up when he hears the telltale sound of their ATV rumbling up the road. Something inside of him uncoils with relief, a gentle hope that Papyrus is ready to help, because god, could Sans use a nap already. He can feel it tugging below his eyes.

“I’ll be back in a sec,” he tells the Fell monster. Then he adjusts the large disc fan a little away from their direct line and shuffles out of the room to slide on his boots and jacket.

Papyrus looks as bright as ever. There’s a telltale pinch at his eyes like he’s expecting the worst to happen, but his expression drops when Sans comes into view. Sans grimaces right back, knowing the look.

“God, it’s like you didn’t do anything at all!” his brother says. He’s got a way of sounding… well, almost guilt-trippy, but that isn’t quite the term and Sans is too exhausted for any higher brain power. “You look like death warmed over!”

Sans shrugs into his jacket a little more, hiding his hands in the pockets to fiddle with the fleece. He lifts his shoulders as though to say, “Yeah, and?”

Papyrus doesn’t take him up on it. Sans can see how irritated and pensive he is at a glance. He knows that, hey, maybe some of the chores could’ve been safely neglected, but Sans just barely scraped by the bare minimum to keep the animals fed, so Papyrus can’t get on his case too much. An irritated Papyrus usually means he’s worried about him, which is great, add guilt and shame to the mix too.

Sans rubs at his face. “Yeah, been juggling everything. Lemme help you with that.”

As he makes to grab a couple of overloaded sacks, Papyrus gives him a sharp look and jerks one of the heavier bags away from Sans’s reach, but his expression almost instantly extinguishes. Sans is too tired to argue or justify what happened, so he grabs the closest sack and grins infuriatingly up at his brother.

For a brief moment, he sees the confliction in Papyrus’s eyes before he hides it. Alright. He knows it’s no use to fight about it. He gives a heavy sigh, then Papyrus takes some of the heavier sacks.

“How are they?”

Sans wasn’t sure if Papyrus would start after meeting them, but his abruptness almost catches him off guard. Sans lets the bag in his hand sag to the ground and darts a glance towards the porch. “Well, pretty skittish. You’ll have to tone it down a bit.”

Papyrus’s face screws up, but he doesn’t protest.

Sans belabours it for a moment. “They haven’t said anything yet.”

“How long have they been awake?” Papyrus asks, curious.

“A couple, few days,” Sans reports. “I don’t expect ‘em to say anything for awhile, but they get the gist of what I’ve been saying, I think. At least, I told them to whistle if they need me and they tried a bit.”

“And a check?”

Sans can’t help but flinch. He must really be tired if he’s letting himself betray every grimace and jolt. “Same name, but it’s all garbled. It doesn’t show their moniker. I think them being so close to kickin’ it messed with their values. It just said ‘here’.”

Papyrus seems to give that some thought. He’s never been one to overlook things, and that news is probably more than a little worrisome.

“Pronouns?”

Sans gives a slight shrug, like it conveys all that he didn’t bother to look that deeply.

Papyrus just sighs in response. “Alright. Suppose we’ll just monitor them in the meantime.” He almost sneers when he brings up one bag in particular, crinkling with plastic. “I got your bones.”

Sans snickers a little more than he probably should and takes it in hand.

~

Unloading the cargo takes less time with the two of them, and Papyrus admittedly starts to make a scene at the state of their poor kitchen and hallway, scattered in the remains of Sans’s search and cooking. Sans just laughs to himself and helps put things away, feeding the stove more wood so it’s kept warm. When the last of the bulkier items have been put away, Papyrus shoves his brother towards the kitchen, muttering quietly to himself.

“Oh my god, Sans. Left to your own devices and you’d stew anything on that infernal stove!”

Sans shrugs and meagrely puts away some dishes in a disorderly way, grinning at the little pun more than he means to. “What c’n I say? I like to stew on things.”

Papyrus waves at him dismissively. “A shoddy attempt at cooking, anyway.” Not like he’s one to talk, seeing as Papyrus still forgets to boil water sometimes in the middle of everything that needs doing. Sans’s food at least winds up edible.

Sans just shoots him a toothy grin. Papyrus can’t stay irritated at him for long. In fact, Sans has the distinct impression that it was more a flare of protectiveness than Papyrus actually being angry with him. It honestly feels more like home now that his brother is back, and Sans is finally able to relax.

Sans doesn’t argue when Papyrus approaches the stool he rests on, peeling carrots and letting the skins drop into the sink. Carefully, he takes the vegetable peeler from Sans’s aching hands and winds his arms around Sans’s shoulders, pushing him to his chest.

“I’m proud of you, Sans,” he says very quietly.

Sans isn’t sure how to process it, figures it’s more that Papyrus didn’t think that the Fell monster would survive, even though Sans obviously had appeared despondent about it. Sans lifts his hands to pat his brother’s back, a shockwave of relief and peace flooding him with those small and solemn words.

“Uh, thanks.”

Papyrus clicks his tongue, squeezing him for good measure. “Your hugs are terrible. You’re clearly out of practise!”

Sans grins and turns his head, drawing his arm against Papyrus’s back a little more. Infuriatingly, he snaps the back of his brother’s suspenders. “Missed ya too.”

“Clearly! At least you don’t smell like onions. Or garlic. Or any other alliums you can get your little sausage thieves on.”

“I got all the garlic planted, yep.”

Papyrus doesn’t let him go, his hug full and warm. “Do you think they’re ok over there?”

Sans turns his head into the direction of the hall. He gets pensive for a moment, until his brother leans back to break the hug.

“They were Fallen, right?” Papyrus adds as quietly as he can. His expression changes subtly from the jovial witticism to one of stark worry.

“Fell,” Sans corrects, lowering his voice too. He isn’t quite sure how to give Papyrus the info that, hey, they bit him, and also might’ve cannibalised his soul a little bit. “Alt-type folk.”

Papyrus scoffs. “Does that count as being politically correct?”

“I can ask a bear about it. Or a fish lady.”

Covering his eyes with one hand, Papyrus groans. “No, please, I don’t think I can take any more politics of that kind. That’s why I was so late!! I’m sorry, Sans.”

Sans shrugs. If he knew it was something within Papyrus’s control, he might’ve been a little more upset about it. Or not. Now that they’ve reconvened, have had a chance to relax a little and deflate from having to be apart, things feel simpler now.

“It is what it is. Don’t beat yourself up about it.”

“You were upset,” Papyrus hisses softly. Sans gives another infuriating shrug. “Don’t do that!! I’m being  _ serious!” _

“Easy,” Sans warns, lowering his voice. “They’re gonna get jumpy.”

Papyrus adjusts himself, throwing a glance down the hall. “Did you pull out the heater?”

“That’s why the closet is one with the floor, yeah.”

“Are they…” His brother fidgets. “Are they… you know. Alright?”

“Oh,” Sans mumbles, awkward. “I think they’ll be ok. But, uh…”

Here would be a fine opening to tell Papyrus the truth. The good thing about outgrowing most of his old habits about outright lying means that Sans can be selective about what information he gives. Which is both a bad and good thing, he guesses. He trails a fingertip under the collar of his shirt to the small, slit-like grooves in his collarbone.

Papyrus doesn’t miss the movement, his brow drawn up, pensive and worry collected into one poignant gaze.

“Promise not to get mad.”


	11. Chapter 11

When Sans carefully tugs his collar away from his clavicle, his brother’s idle movements freeze, shellshocked by the little bit of damage Sans sustained while he was away. Sans can see the gears start to grind within his brother’s head and opens his mouth to get the first word in. Ok, maybe he should’ve gone for the gentler approach. Sans has always been the clumsier one of the two.

“This is what I mean when I say they’re skittish. I startled them while they were a bit wound up-”

It doesn’t appear to matter how it happened, just that it _did._ Papyrus drops the most abrupt F-bomb in the history of their lives. It shocks Sans into shamed silence. While it’s somewhat atypical for Papyrus to swear, this is a little bit of a special occasion, and so he brings out the entire cavalry.

He just keeps going. Something about dill pickles and jackhammers as he tentatively touches the marks with his fingers. He’s not particularly _angry_ about it. It’s a slow-eruption of words and eerie calm that just doesn’t jive with his colourful selection of rose-coded words.

Sans raises his brow a little, considering that this is over the top. For all the times Papyrus chides him for his own colourful phrases, his brother has clearly made up an entirely new language for Sans’s consideration.

“That’s probably, uh,” Sans mumbles quietly, “why I didn’t say anything right away.”

Papyrus stops, covering his face with both of his hands. He seems to collect himself. “How many times.”

Sans covers his clavicle after his brother stops, apparently done filtering his frustration and worry into meaningless, bitter diatribes.

“Just the one. They don’t got the strength for anything else, I think, and it was kind of my fault.”

Papyrus at least looks mildly ashamed of his little outburst. His cheeks are dusted in a pale rosy flush. “I got carried away.”

Sans isn’t that perturbed. He heard it when Papyrus slammed his foot with a sledgehammer in their first year. When he snickers, it gradually eases the tension from the room.

“Never heard the dills before,” Sans says, as though it’s a compliment.

Papyrus just sighs out in aggravation, moving to pinch the bridge of bone between his eyes. “You’re going to be the death of me.”

“God, I hope not,” Sans laughs nervously.

Papyrus moves his hand dismissively, shakes his head. He exudes weariness and tension all at once. There’s an unspoken question in the air.

Sans can feel it. Maybe it’s something he overlooked, misjudged, or simply didn’t consider. But then it hits him. He hadn’t considered if it was alright to take them in. He didn’t think about how his brother felt.

Cautiously, Sans swallows, the question heavy in his throat. “Are they allowed to stay?” he tentatively asks.

His brother turns to regard him as though Sans just dropped the rudest bomb yet. He blinks a few times, then seems to register something. “Why wouldn’t they be?”

Sans resists the urge to gesture to his collarbone, but he hunches his shoulders. “Just considering how you reacted, is all.”

“Nonsense,” Papyrus waves him off. “Do you want them here?”

Sans shrugs, unable to meet Papyrus’s eyes. Of course he does. He wants to make sure they’re ok.

Papyrus knows it. He knows it. Sans wouldn’t have tried as hard as he did to keep them alive if he didn’t think it’d make a difference.

“Yeah,” he concedes, honest.

“Well,” Papyrus coughs. “Seeing that, er… I might… possibly… cause unrest…” Sans grimaces like a cat that just caught a whiff of citrus and his brother chuckles a little nervously to himself. “Perhaps… I should take care of the outside chores while you tend to them? You know. Since they already know you. I assume.”

Sans isn’t sure if he’s embarrassed or shamefaced, but he rolls his shoulder in an effort to shrug it away. “You can’t do everything yourself.”

“Brother, please, I have and will do so again!! It’s no such--no, do _not_ get that look on your face. You look like hell in a handbasket!! You’ve already been driving yourself into the ground. The fact that you took a bath to cover it up means nothing. You need at least eight naps and forty-two meals.”

He’s a good guy. He isn’t sure why, but Sans smiles fondly at that, his entire body crying for one more nap. He’s gotta make up the broth, though, and maybe more fried egg scramble and some sausage. That, and feed himself along with his brother now.

In fact, he knows better than to argue with Papyrus when he gets into these mother-hen modes.

So he simply nods, turning back to his batch of carrots, celeriac, and onions. Papyrus sneaks up next to him, a little fretful, until Sans realises that he probably wants to look over the marks.

“Alright, alright,” Sans mumbles a little softly and pivots away from the sink. “They’re not that bad, though.”

Papyrus clicks his tongue as he unbuttons the first two loops of Sans’s shirt and inspects the small bites in his collar. It tingles under his touch, but Sans makes no indication that it bothers him. His HP isn’t even touched, but bone takes awhile to heal.

Hissing out when he feels the sudden bloom of healing magic pour into the open cracks, Sans whispers, “You don’t gotta do that.”

“Enough,” Papyrus says with a mild irritation Sans is too familiar with. “I can spare this.”

So he does. Sans shuts up as the negligible slits in his bone ache into iron-hot welts full of healing magic. Papyrus’s magic is potent, but it isn’t something someone like their guest would be able to withstand. It’s like very carefully getting punched in the face, but with love.

When Papyrus moves his hand, Sans reaches up to cup his clavicle like it’ll help soothe. It radiates heat not unlike an infection. Still, he screws up his expression into something grateful and mumbles, “Thanks.” No use making Papyrus feel unwanted after all the crap he puts up with, after all.

He ignores his brother’s insistence that he get some rest. In fact, Sans continues preparing the things necessary for the broth, dumping in the beef bones from their plastic bag into the stockpot, freshly washed and filled with water. He adds the chopped onion, celeriac root, and carrots for a bit more flavour. The proteins are what their guest really needs, and hot broth has always been a staple food item for the sick and elderly in their area. And to be honest, he’s kind of looking forward to sipping some himself.

It takes an hour to get it all sorted, fixing the fire and skimming what accumulates at the top of the pot. Admittedly, boiling bones always feels unnaturally macabre, but Sans deals with it. Papyrus likely won’t have any. Which is probably for the best, seeing as he’s putting as much healing intent into the broth as it simmers.

It’ll take a few hours for it to break down all the marrow and connective fibres, so Sans steeples the lid and arranges the wood in the stove so it’s low, cooking it slowly so he has a chance to look into the room where the Fell monster is.

He finds Papyrus not outside, but lingering down the hall, peering into the room just out of view. His shoulders are tense like he’s preparing to stand off against what’s inside, though anything could’ve happened. Sans’s mind immediately shoots to the _what-if_ of their guest having passed despite all he’s done to ensure that they’re comfortable. His soul gives a tentative squeeze of apprehension when Papyrus looks back at him, his eyes glittering with tension.

“They ok?” Sans can’t help but ask quickly, quickly trying to look into the room. “What happened?”

“I don’t think they like me very much at all,” his brother reports a little shrilly.

Sans’s expression drops as he manages to peek inside. He hears a low sound from across the floor, just under the soft hum of the heater fan. When he makes eye contact with the Fell monster, they’re wide-awake, shaking, and agitated.

He mutters a curse under his breath. Unthinking, he pushes past his brother to go inside. He ignores the way Papyrus tries to tug him back by his sleeve and shrugs him off.

Sans can hear the subtle knock of bones buried within the blankets, rattling together like the Fell monster can’t control it. Their singular eye light is blown out wide and bright, a richer red than before. The slit in it is so sharp that it’s barely there.

They don’t seem to recognise him. In fact, their teeth clench together with enough force that they creak the closer Sans gets.

“Hey, buddy,” Sans tries warmly, only to be met with a rolling growl. “You’re ok. Just me and my bro. He’s a little loud, but remember,” he reaches out, ignoring the quiet protest from the door, “soft as a kitten.”

Their breaths pick up, startled by his movement. Although he made sure to be slow, Sans freezes when the Fell monster apparently tries to lunge at him. Caught in the blankets, they don’t make it that far. Papyrus decides to take his life in his hands and darts into the room to grab Sans by the arm, causing their guest to snarl and almost hiss.

“Hey-”

“Sans, ok, right, fine, alright, ok-” Papyrus starts once they’re back into the safety of the hallway. “-alright, ok-”

“Paps, c’mon,” Sans mutters and jerks his sleeve from his brother’s hand. “I bet they’re just hungry.”

“Just!? Hungry!?”

Sans levels him with a sharp look, one that says; “god help you, be quiet ‘cause you’re not making this any easier.” To his credit, Papyrus shuts up with the unspoken ultimatum.

“They’re better with a full belly. Small bites. I’ll get some leftovers but keep out of view of ‘em. They might be-”

“-very angry?? Hostile?? _Sans,”_ Papyrus interrupts in a hiss, “I was not imagining this when you told me that they were doing ok! This seems to be the precise opposite of ok!!”

Sans hushes him again and tugs him through the hallway, away from the open door to the guest room. “Listen. They were as shy as a kitten earlier. They just need to ease into it, probably.”

“You keep bringing up kittens. Do you want a kitten, brother? A little feral four-legged destructive animal? Is the goose not enough for you??” Papyrus continues to hiss like an aggravated snake. “Tell me what other animals you want because you seem to have a penchant for things that are a threat to your longevity!”

Sans snorts quietly, raising a brow with incredulity. “Boy, you’re really riled up about this, huh.”

“I am not accustomed to being bitten by house guests, no. Unlike someone else in this household who shall remain anonymous.”

Sans rolls his eyes and lets go of his brother’s arm once they half-wrestle into the kitchen. Papyrus stumbles, gangly and tall, and rubs at his forearm as though Sans actually hurt him. Sans decides to let him pout while he heats up the leftover ham in a saucepan with some lard and an egg.

“If you wanna think about it that way, sure,” Sans adds to his brother’s earlier barb. “They’ll settle down. _Don’t_ go down there alone though. I don’t want you hurting them in a panic.”

Papyrus balks at his brother, but he doesn’t say anything. Sans realises what he just said and grimaces. “I didn’t mean it like that. I mean that… I almost had, so, uh… it’s easy to forget.” His face feels warm with the memory of the Fell monster pinning him down, their teeth on his clavicle, and feeding them small pushes of his magic. “Sorry. My brain’s on the low-power mode of shutting off.”

Papyrus sighs, but there isn’t any heat behind it. He just watches as Sans bowls the bit of food and sends him a toothy grin in apology. Sans creeps down the hall, blowing on the dish to cool it and stirring the bright orange egg yolk all over the ham.

As he approaches the door, their gaze is immediately on him again, as cold and abrupt as a dagger thrown in the dark. A check glances off him, more pronounced, deeper than before. Sans stills as the info echoes back to his own inner dialogue.

> [* sans  
>  safe . > . /. . ? ... ? ]

Alright, at least he gives off that impression. His feet don’t quite obey him when he yearns to go forward, to pass carefully into their personal space. He tries again, and it’s like his legs are trying to slough through thick mud.

“Got some food for ya,” he offers as amicably as he can. The pressure in the air changes slightly like a warning. “Sorry ‘bout before.”

They say nothing, so Sans waits for them to calm down. After their brief flare-up of aggression, the air is decidedly tense, heavy with bristling magic. As a peace offering, he sets the bowl down on the nightstand and their eye light flicks to it, immediate. The tension doesn’t waver, steady and low like a pulse.

Sans steps back and they eye him warily from the bed, cocooned in but helpless to do anything but glare. The grooves under their eye sockets are deep and scored, making them look far more deranged than before.

“Ham,” Sans offers gently, his smile uneasy with the sudden attention. “An’ some egg. Sausage.” He thinks about it for a moment. “Meat.”

His soul does a painful lunge when the Fell monster appears to glare at the offered bowl, sudden interest betraying their unsteady behaviour. Sans forces himself to relax, to slump his shoulders into a dead slouch. He can hear Papyrus’s steps approaching from the hall.

“Everything’s ok,” he tells them both. That stops his brother in his tracks. He knows it’s going to be difficult to juggle the two’s anxiety about one another, until the Fell monster is ok enough with company. Maybe they’re just used to him?

He takes a tentative step forward. They look to him, questioning, their eye light bright and sharp. It flicks around, never straying from Sans for too long, seemingly taking in the room.

“I’m here to help,” Sans says again, this time like a promise. Their eye light blooms out, red and hot like a forge. Then it seems to sizzle. “S’ok, buddy. We’ve met, right? You ok with me comin’ closer?”

He tests the boundaries by moving a step towards the nightstand. They don’t lunge for him again, but they tense like a spring coiled too tight. Sans keeps his hands in view.

“See me?”

They’re watching him. It’s a little unsettling. Dead silence wrapped in fleece blankets, dressed in his clothes, weary from healing from their bout in the fields. Sans doesn’t know what happened, but he sure as hell can make it easier for them.

They seem to concede after awhile. He’s had more time gentling horses back when they had them, but Sans wasn’t expecting for them to relax in his presence until a great deal longer. When another check glances off him, the word “safe” is a lot more pronounced. A lot less unsure.

“Sure are, buddy,” he beams at them, some of the tension sliding from his spine. “You’re scared, right? I’d be too. You’ll warm up to him, but you don’t gotta see him if you’re uneasy around strangers. Heck, sometimes I ain’t fond of huge noises m’self.”

Sans’s eyes drift to the heater laying cockeyed on the floor. He moves another step to test the distance between him and the Fell monster, and when they don’t respond, he takes another. And another. Until he’s standing next to the heater, warming his hands in the low electric heat.

“Does it feel better with this here?”

Sans crouches on the floor so they’re more at eye level. It’s something he does to get acquainted with new animals and shy children. If he’s smaller, he’s less of a threat. He hopes it works.

He tucks his feet under him and sits cross-legged in front of the heater, keeping their face within view. They turn their head just a little, the flex of their pupil retracting from its feline-like slit. Sans’s gaze drifts to the bruise at their temple, resisting the urge to soothe it with his thumb. It wouldn’t be ok to test that boundary too soon. Best not to tease them about the food, either.

So he doesn’t. Sans carefully, slowly, slides his hand towards the nightstand to take the bowl. The Fell monster’s eye light follows him, staring like a startled cat.

“It’s comfy, huh?” Sans says quietly. “See? Nothin’ to be scared of.”

Sans can feel Papyrus peeking in on them, but he hasn’t made a sound. His collar complains when Sans moves his arm down and stirs around the protein, getting a small spoonful ready as he situates himself beside the bed so he’s face to face with his guest.

“Meat, egg, cooked in lard. I’ve got some broth started on the stove, but it won’t be done until later. This’ll probably be ok, though.” Sans gives them a grin, cockeyed and boyish. “Hopefully. Wanna try without the kickstart?”

They look at the spoonful held out for them. Then, slowly, their body eases like they’re settling in their own bones. When Sans brings the small bite up to their teeth, his fingers detect a small tug, half at his ambient magic, half at the proffered food.

“Easy, easy. Gentle, buddy.” It almost feels like calming a skittish hen or a wild-eyed cow. “Slowly.”

The Fell monster regards him with something Sans can’t quite name. It’s either bitter acceptance, or overwhelming gratitude. It threatens to pull at his heartstrings, but he still feels Papyrus watching over them. Like he doesn’t trust them not to try to bite him again. Which is fair, Sans concedes. He handled that pretty messily.

The first mouthful lingers past their teeth for the longest time, their eye sockets narrowing slightly. Focus isn’t the word Sans would use, but they’re concentrated on the task like they’re not used to so much all at once. Or maybe they’re skeptical.

Eventually, the weight of his arm has Sans pulling his hand away. Thankfully, the bit of food on the spoon either dropped into the Fell monster’s mouth, or it had been absorbed. He rubs at his arm to soothe the ache, then idly touches the welts full of healing magic at his collar. It makes him sigh out, soft, brittle, but the intention is good. It’ll probably heal overnight at this rate.

They give pause. Their eye light settles at Sans’s neck, the edges of the glow softening. Registering.

Sans feels another ping. It almost startles him.

“It’s ok,” Sans chuckles good-naturedly. He takes his hand away from the teeth marks and loads up another spoonful. He can’t shake the small worry of guilt that trickles into the air like from a crack in the window. “I’ve had worse,” he adds softly. “C’mon, now. Another bite.”

The Fell monster even attempts to lean forward to get the food, which does something strange to Sans’s soul. He’s all fond smiles, gentle encouragement, slowly waiting for every bite to be eaten before he rests in between each one. His guest seems fine to go at this pace; they’re a little winded, but a cosy calm washes over them the more food they get.

And Sans can tell they’re getting it. The rusty magic that blooms in small spurts between their joints brightens a little, minute by minute, hour by hour. At the next pause, Sans automatically rocks forward onto his knees and pulls up the blanket to their neck, tucking them in. He doesn’t get so much as a hiss for his efforts, but a groggy, sated, heavy rasp.

“Got enough?” Sans asks them softly. They don’t move, but the Fell monster makes that half-brassy rasp again. Sans can’t help the warm smile that touches his teeth. “I’m glad, buddy. You did good. Seems like you’re healin’ up just fine.”

Another brassy rasp, almost sounding like a growl, but not quite. It lingers for a little longer, trailing off on a sigh. Sans just kneels beside them and watches for a moment, bowl in hand, his other hand on their shoulder.

He gambles a look out of the door and finds his brother partway down the hall as though he’d been watching the whole time. Knowing him, he’s nervous about their new guest, whether he said it was alright that they stayed or not.

And well, Sans is kind of glad in a way. He feels much better for the Fell monster recovering with them. Carefully, he tucks them in a little more, brushing his thumb against the small bruise at their temple. Their breath stutters slightly, but they ease down, impossibly deep into the sheets.

“Good job, buddy,” Sans says again.


End file.
